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Love Intrigues. 



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VE ACTS 



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./ 

L LEOPOLD. 



Entore'l iiccfndini; to aet of Congress, in the year 1884, by L. LeoimUl. in the office of 
tlie Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



LAMBDIN & FURMAN, Printers, 
WACO, TEXAS. 
1884. 




• 







Love Intrigues. 



-^A^- 



» DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS, 



^BY*- 



L. LEOPOLD. 



Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1864, by L. Leopold, in the office of 
the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



LAMBDIN & FURMAN, Printers, v 
WACO, TEXAS. ^ 



^rr7^'' 



7543^ 

LOVE INTRIGUES. 

A DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS 



DRAMATIS PERSON/£. 

LEONOR a young lady from South America, afterward Mrs. Loudon 

INEZ/,(pronounce Enez) a companion to her 

LOUDON a planter 

CLARA his daughter 

THOMAS a blacksmith 

Mrs. THOMAS his wife 

CHARLES their son 

PASCAL a banker 

PRESCOTT a planter 

RK:^%°D;i young gentlemen 

HELEN, ) u -A 

BLANCHE,; house-ma.ds 

TOM an aged negro 

Then, Ladies and gentlemen, peace-officers and people. 
Action: — In a southern city of the United States and in various places in 
the country, a short distance from said city. Period: — Before the civil war. 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 



ACT I. 
SCENE 1. — Li the City; a room in Leonor's Residence 
Helen and Blanche aftericards In.ez^ Lenor and Pascal. 
Helen and Blanche occupied clearing np the room, 

Helen. We will soon have finished our work; and as for me, 
another such soiree could come off again. 

Blanche. I would not like to see it, at least, not for some time 
to come. 

Helen. I don't mind the little extra work, because it is other- 
wise very entertaining, 

Blanche. That's all that yon. think of — parties, dances, and such 
things. Just see where your head is again; you don't lay the 
table covers straight; neither the rucks; you don't do anything 
right; you are so wrapt up in your fantastic ideas that you can't 
see straight out of your eyes. 

Helen. I can't help that; because my e}'es and mind are so full of 
the little of what I saw last evening, that, by right, I ought not to 
be blamed. 

Blanclie. I know what ails you; you ought to be one of those 
big ladies yourself, so you could put on a heap of that style, too, 
and ever so many airs besides; so you could look five hundred times 
during the day in the looking-glass; P(. you could see that everv 
lock of your beautiful hair is at its riglit phu-e; so you could turn 
your head in every imaginable direction. Wouhln't you like to 
have it so? But I am glad you can't; serves you ju.st right. 

Helen. And you, talk about yourself. You would be ten times 
worse. You would have two negroes all tiie time around you, just 
to carry along the trails of your dresses. 

Blanche. Of course, I would! I wouldn't want lo bo out-done 
in style or in putting on airs by anybody; no matt-r who it is. I 
would have the best, the finest, and iho dearest, if you please; but 



4 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

as I can't have it, I try to be happy anyhow, and don't let those 
things turn my head, as they bother you. Now, what are you wait- 
ing for again? 

Helen. I am waiting to hear you talk 

Blanche. What a lazy thing you are! 

Helen. What a tongue, what a tongue you have! I tell you, we 
needn't dust and clean up the rooms with brushes and dusters, for 
I am sure if I put you in any of our rooms, and you just let your 
tongue loose, with but little more force than you use now, you will 
see that the dust will fly out through the doors and windows like 
magic. 

Blanche. If that is the case, it speaks well for me and I want 
my salary raised. 

Helen. It would make you neither more nor less. 

Blanche. Give me your reasons. 

Helen. Have you ever looked at one of those big machines, 
with ever so many wheels, large and small ones, and how one great 
wheel drives them all? 

Blanche. 1 believe I did. 

Helen. That's just the world. It is a great machine; money is 
the power that keeps everything agoing; people are the wheels; 
they represent till sizes, and we are the little ones; and whether 
we get a little more money or not, we remain the same. 

Bl. Then if our mistress don't want us any more she wheels us, 
she wheels us out of doors; for this reason is the world a machine, 
and for the same reason are we small Avheels, I see your smartness 
comes in very handy sometimes. 

Hel. There is Miss Inez coming; 

Enter Inez. 

I suppose you want to surprise us. 

Bl. You may come madame; the dance may begin anew, and 
this very evening, if it has to be. 

Inez. I must say, girls, you have been very industrious. The 
most fastidious could find no fault; on the contrary, you deserve 
great praise for your diligence, and because you have put every- 
thing in its proper place again. I presume you have finished all 
your work. 

Bl. About one or two rooms to clean up, or rather to look after. 

Hel. Please, Miss Inez, oh please! if you don't mind it, do tell us 
something of yesterday evening's affair. 

Bl. I, too, will rest awhile from my work, if you will be kind 
enough to do it. 

Inez. To be candid, I know very little myself; because I 
was tired out before the soiree had begun; and while things went 
on, my eyes and mind were concentrated on just one thing, namely, 
that nothing should go amiss, because all depended on me and on 
my management. But worst of all, on such occasions,is the excite- 
ment one is laboring under; and when you think you are done 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 5 

with one thing, immediately something else comes up, always much 
more annoying and complicated, and so it continues to the last. 

Ilel. You have done your part^ fiiHj' 

Bl. I would like to know what Miss Leonor would do without 

Inez. She tells me that often enough; but I don't mind it. I am 
doing all I can for her, because she is so good and kind-hearted. 

Bl. Let us go now; you have heard enough; it is getting late, 
and we must finish our work. 

Hel. Always work, work! you old scrubbing-brush! 

Bl. You can hear the rest some other time. 

Inez. Miss Leonor is coming ; I hear her steps. 

Bl. That settles you, with your nose always in everything. 

\JExeunt^ Hel. and Bl. 

Inez. Every day has its new tasks and duties; so pass weeks, so 
months and years, and in this manner we grow old, almost before 
we know it. 

Enters Leonor. 

Leonor. You are quite active again, Inez; you are not tired out 
as I supposed you to be. 

Inez. All trouble is over, because everything passed off so well. 

Leonor. I cannot pay you too many compliments, for without 
your care and management our soiree would have been a failure. 

Inez. Thank you, Leonor; but my greatest pleasure is to see you 
well pleased. 

Leonor. It is a great satisfaction to us that every visitor left our 
rooms so highly elated. Indeed, the most refined ladies and gen- 
tlemen of the city were present; and I received so many compli- 
ments. 

Inez. Nearly everybody was taken by surprise. 

Leonor. And most of them asked me whether all that was South 
American style. 

Inez. They asked rne the same question. 

Leonor. Strange these people are, they take us to be barbarians, 
but we have cured them of their self-conceit, at least, this time, 
and in another sense we were right in giving our friends this 
reception, for during the whole season, as you know, I came in 
their society and was their guest, and how thoroughly we 
succeeded is apparent from the great pleasure we have afforded 
them. 

Inez. You deserve a very high compliment yourself, because you 
have made the honors so gracefully. 

Leonor. Oh, I only felt that I was in my right sphere. 

Inez. And by this time, Leonor, I am almost sure that you have 
found the right one you can give your heart to. 

Leonor. Your same question again; however I will not fret. 

Inez. It will not do to break so many hearts, or to keep so many 
gentlemen in suspense. 



6 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

Leonor. That's nothing; I but recently refused to accept the hand 
of Mr. Prescott, a gentleman who stands quite high in society. 

Inez. And do you always give them the same answer? 

Leonor. Invariably so; I tell them I will not marry in this coun- 
try, hence they cannot be specially offended. 

Inez. I would infer that this would cause them to be the much 
more dejected. 

Leonor. I cannot help that; besides when gentlemen talk about 
love matters they do not mean it so seriously. They had just as leave 
make love as to converse of horses or other sports, and I listen to their 
effusive declarations, in which some gentlemen have acquired great 
tact and eloquence, but futhermore I pay no attention to it; and, 
after all, what is love? A dream, a self-delusion; and oftentimes 
I cannot refrain from smiling when I think of people who are in 
love. 

Inez. Never mind, madamoiselle, the time will come when you 
will speak differently. Just let the right one come along, and if 
things do not go exactly your own way, your heart will begin to 
ache, and you will not feel much lite smiling. 

Leonor. It may be Inez; but all young people who indulge in love, 
in those unreal dreams, eventually will awake and come to their 
proper senses — they either good-naturedly laugh at their past 
follies, or bewail their existing misery, which that false god Love, 
whom they once so devoutly worshipped, has brought them into; 
and whether I make light of it now or hereafter, if I should fall 
in the same snare, it would change nothing. 

Inez. You are the greatest wonder to me, because every action, 
every movement of yours is a contradiction of what you said. 

Lenor. True enough, my dear; my actions do not indicate my 
feelings or thoughts; and this should be so, because society is such. 
Then 1 am fond of pleasure — I love music, I enjoy the dance, I am 
charmed with the world and its life, and if people flatter and admire 
me, I let them do it to their heart's content; could you blame me 
for that % 

Inez. I mean whether you always want to live to yourself and 
for yourself? 

Leonor. I am by no means alone, as long as I have society to live 
in. 

Inez. What all your doings, then, for? 

Leonor. You see, Inez, nature has been very kind to me; just 
as, in similar manner, she has endowed certain men with great 
powers, such as bodily strength or inventive genius and skill; and 
whatever graces or gifts I may possess, I make use of them in such 
a way as a lady of the world has a right to. 

Inez. How over-modest and how over-moral you are! You 
ought to go lecturing; that would suit you exactly. I thought i 
knew you by this time, but I am far oft". 

Leonor. That means nothing, when, sometimes, I play a little 
serious with my beaux; when I frown on them occasionally, or give 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 7 

them little or no attention; and when they look so dismal and 
down-hearted, and are almost ready to give up the ship, that I give 
them a glancing smile and all is made up again! Nobody wants to 
be angry, at least I would not, 

Inez. I practiced once the same game in my youngei^years. I 
remember it well. I played mad with one of my beaux. I made 
him believe that he was nothing to me and that I didn't care for 
him^ but the truth is, I was dead in love with him; and what do 
you think he did? 

Leonor. I presume he grieved very much over it. 

Inez. Not quite; he took the coin exactly at what it was given 
for, and went immediately courting another young lady, who 
was only too glad to get hold of him. So I was lett in the cold, 
and I wept myself nearly blind, but it did me no good; therefore, 
I say watch out, young lady, you may fare in a like manner. 

Leonor. I am sorry, Inez, that you had no better luck, but, as 
for me, I can be at ease as long as I have no intention of getting 
married and as long as I have a chance yet to select. While I 
think of it — I wanted to mention it to you several times — I have 
on several occasions met an elderly gentleman; he is always very 
pleasant to me; he seems to have traveled a great deal, and 1 must 
say I like his ways; he is a widower, and not long ago he made me 
faithfully promise to visit him and his daughter, a young lady just 
from school; he says they live in the conntry, only a short distance 
from the city; and what do you think I intend to do. 

Inez. It is impossible for me to guess any of your doings. 

leonor. I have a notion to keep my word. 

Inez. What do you want a widower for? 

Leonor. Must every one of my movements be connected with 
marrying? 

Inez. What else does it mean? You have no patience to live in 
the country. 

Leonor. I have never tried it; and I may as well make the 
experiment, just for pass-time. 

Inez. You will nut hold out very long there; I know you better. 

Enter, Servant. 

Ser. Mr, Pascal desires to see inadaine. 

Leonor. He may enter. \_Exit, Servant.'] I received a note from 
Mr. Pascal; he wants to see me on very .important business; there- 
fore, if you please, Inez, leave us alone for awjiile. 

Inez. Certainly, dear; and on my return, I will perhaps be able 
to bring you some entertaining news. \^Exit^ Inez. 

Enter Pascal. 

Leonor. I am very happy to see you. 

Pascal. Thanks, madame. 

Leonor. Your purpose, Mr. Pascal, is to see me on important 



8 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

business affairs, and it is meet, I think, that we give them our first 
attention and discuss other topics afterwards. 

Pascal. To satisfy your desire, I beg to inform you that the tid- 
ings which I must unfold to you (and they have come by the latest 
mail) are" of a highly important character. 

Leonor. I am prepared to listen; whatever the portents may be. 

Pascal. Then I make my statement brief; and could my wishes 
prevail, I would have its brevity reduced to a blank. 

Leonor. I understand you, but must beg you to proceed. 

Pascal. I received the sad news, direct from the capital of your 
country, that the bank where you had moneys and securities on 
deposit, had failed.J 

Leonor. I fear this is not your story's end. 

Pascal. Almost immediately after this event, the insurgents cap- 
tured the capital and overtunred the government; then a conflagra- 
tion broke out which destroyed the principal part of the city, including 
the buildings you owned, which the former government had used 
f©r military purposes, and which yielded such a handsome income; 
so all your wealth and revenues, so far as I know, and if the report 
be true, are things of the past. 

Leonor. Great heavens! What is to be done, when I am 
deprived of all my means? You have something else to say, sir, 
speak on ! 

Pascal., Of course, this suspends further business transactions 
between us, excepting that you are my debtor of a large sum of 
money, which I have advanced you on your securities, and which 
are now worthless. 

Leonor. This news comes so unexpectedly that I prefer to speak 
over these matters with you at some future time; however, I will 
say so much at present, that you shall not lose one penny. I will 
make it a life-duty to pay you and to pay you with interest. I owe 
you thanks, Mr. Pascal, for the many acts of kindness you have 
extended to me, and I beg to assure you that you will not find me 
ungrateful. 

Pascal. You have my heartfelt sympathies. \Dxit. 

Leonor. To hear of such dreadful calamities, in the midst of 
happy dreams, is like a tempest coming from a clear sky. It is 
the sudden turn of light into darkness, life into death, all into noth- 
ing. When the blind are born so, they know not their unhap- 
piness, for man cannot lose what he does not possess. And how 
will I be able to bear this ruinous contrast? Reared, as I was, in 
comfort and luxury, the mere thought to live in poverty and priva- 
tion stifles my courage and crushes me down. Oh, most cruel 
fate, with a relentless hand, thou inflictest heavy chastisement on me 
which I am unable to bear! Cast on this foreign land, and living 
amongst a strange people, my mind turns back to my native land! 
But what, O! what, will I see there? A mourning people, broken 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 9 

hearts, and the ruins of once peaceful and happy homes! What 
shall I do; what begin, helpless as I am, in this wide, wide world! 

(weeps.) 

Enter Inez, {hastily). 

Leonor. You here, Inez ? 

Inez. I will tell you 

Leonor. What has happened? You are pale like a ghost ! No 
doubt a great calamity has occurred; they never come single; 
speak, speak, Inez, and let me know it. 

Inez. One moment only 

leonor. I can listen to all; I have courage to face all. Speak, 
Inez, there is nobody near; nobody can hear us. I am dying with 
impatience; speak and let me know it, should it be my very death. 

Inez. One moment only; I am out of breath. 

Leonov. Hearing your voice gives me some relief. I pray you, 
Inez, be self-possessed and tell me what calamity has occurred. 

Inez. I saw them brought on litters. 

Leonor. Who and where "? 

Inez. Your friends. 

Leonor. My friends "? 

Inez. Yes, your friends or our friends, Mr. Prescott and Mr. 
Carroll. 

Leonor. I do not understand you. 

Inez. They were brought on litters; I saw their faces; they 
looked like corpses, and for aught I know may be dead by this time. 

Leonor. Dead! 

Inez. It was on the street, not far from here; they placed the 
litters on the ground, I suppose to let \\\e dying men rest; a 
large crowd gathered and formed a circle around them ; all of them 
bearing on their faces the imprint of horror and pity, and giving 
away to wailing and lamentation. 

Leonor. Speak on and do not stop. 

Inez. I asked a gentleman friend, who stood near-by, what the 
cause of the scene of horror was; he answered me not, but made 
a very distressing face and shrugged his shoulders. I, however, 
persisted to let me know it, and he, in confidence, told me that the 
rumor was spreading over the city that the two men had fought a 
duel. 

Leonor. A duel? 

Inez. On your account, Leonor. and that you had been the insti- 
gator. 

Leonor. For mercy's sake, what must I hear! I know of noth- 
ing; I am innocent! I am innocent! I wish I were dead and 
buried. 

Inez. I pray you, compose yourself; keep quiet, you have many 
friends, everything will turn out for the best. 

Leonor. Heaven knows I have given no cause to those men. 



10 LOME INTRIGUES. 

Inez. Shame on those men; shame on all of them! They are the 
cause of all evil. It is rivalry of love which is at the bottom of the 
affair; it is jealousy that blinds them and causes them t ) act and 
behave like madmen. In their crazed frenzy they imagine their 
rival to succeed; they see him triumph; they see him in his glory; 
and are brought to the verge of despair when they behold their 
own defeat. But no, this cannot be, this must not be; the rival 
must be hunted down; they thirst for his blood worse than tigers 
and leopards do for their prey; nothing can satisfy them; the rival 
must fall, he must perish! Trifles, which children would laugh at, 
must be avenged like the fate of mankind were depending on them. 
A harmless look, a meaningless movement from the woman they 
love, suffices to set their wits at an end; and with their brains thus 
overheated with passion, are apt to commit the most cold-blooded 
deeds. 

Leonor. Is there no place in the world I can fly to, and be 
relieved from all pain and agony? Have all elements conspired 
against me to crush me so unmercifully? Oh, Inez, you are all the 
world to me! You are my friend, my only friend and my consola- 
tion! I am helpless, I am powerless, what am I to do? 

Inez. You frighten me, Leonor. I know that you are innocent; 
I conjure you, hy all that is dear to you and to me, take courage 
and be yourself. If you give way to despair, I will be more help- 
less than you are. 

Leonor. I have not told you yet that Mr. Pascal was here. 

Inez. I saw him going out. 

Leonor. Then you know nothing. 

Inez. Bad news from home, I suppose. 

Leonor. He informed'me that the bank, where I had my moneys 
on deposit, had failed. 

Inez. That large sum totally gone? 

Leonor. He further said that the insurgents had captured the 
capital; that a fire broke out which destroyed a large portion of the 
buildings, including all those I possessed; so I am now poor and 
without any and every means of support. 

Inez. I have no words to express my sorrow. 

Leonor. In spite of all these misfortunes we will not leave each 
other. 

Inez. What great calamities in such short space of time! 

Leo7ior. I have never known the pangs of calamities till now. 

Liez. It is all on account of the unfortunate war that rages in 
our country. So many people have been reduced to poverty! So 
many households have been enshrouded in mourning, and the 
torches of war are still ablaze. 

Leonor. And every day brings forth new calamities. 

Inez. Heaven knows when it will end. 

Leonor. And what can we do now? 

Inez. Our first duty is, to think of ourselves. 

Leonor. I have nothing to think of any more. 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 11 

Inez. We owe a duty to the world. 

Leouor. What are outward forms to me when my heart is crushed? 

J?it;z. Then do it for your sake, for my sake. 

Leonor. Do what; forget it; forget what V ©h, how can I? 

Inez. Would it not be best that you leave the city, and stay away 
until the excitement and gossip over the duel have subsided? 

Leonor. I know of no place where to go. 

Inez. Let me suggest that you make use of the hospitality which 
that gentleman has offered you; you said he lives not far from 
the city; what is his name? 

Leonor. Mr. Loudon. 

Inez. And remain there until the excitement has cooled down. 
I will stay here and keep you well posted of everything that tran- 
spires in the city. 

Leonor. Then if I go, I suggest that you confer with no one, 
while you remain here. 

Inez. Leave that to me. The question is, whether you want to 
make the trip into the country or not. 

Leonor. I am determined to go. 

Inez. Then we will make all necessary preparations at once; and 
after all your effects have been arranged, take a vehicle with SAvift 
horses, veil your face that none will recognize you, and let one of 
our servants accompany you; and on your arrival there, tell vour 
host that your visit is a recreation, a pass-time, or that your staying 
there is by mere chance, and nobody will be any wiser. 

Leonor. I approve your plan. 

Inez. Then let us proceed with the work immediately, and get 
all necessaries in readiness, and, while thus occupied, we can dis- 
cuss all minor topics more fully. 

Leonor. I am satisfied; I will follow you. [Exeicnt. 



SCENE 11.— In the Country; a Grove near tlie Plantation of 

Mr. XjOudon. 

Charles and Clara. 

Ghas. It was your frowning and your wa3'ward way that caused 
me to be so despondent; however, I should have reminded you in 
time that you are my mirror, that the exiMcssioii of your face moulds 
my disposition, and all our troubles could have been avoided. 

Clara. I might have said the same of you, but I am happy that 
the misunderstanding clears itself up, and it turns out that we both, 
very foolishly, played mad with each other. It is probable, how- 
ever, that I am a little more to be blamed than you, and, in that case, 
I count on your forgiving spirit. 

Chas. How can you explain that? 

Clara. Are you not aware that there are hundreds of eyes that 
see, and so many tongues that speak? 



12 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

Chas. I admire your prudence, but I think I can give another 
explanation, which also defines (jur past conduct. 

Clara. Let me hear it. 

Chas. When we endeavor, or when we are anxious, to correct the 
faults of our friends, or of those for whom we most care, we are 
easily led to step into their grooves, for the purpose, either to hide 
our own feelings or to bring such faults to their attention, or we 
imagine such faults to be virtues, adopt them as our own, and in this 
manner we become neglectful of each other, without knowing it 
ourselves. 

Clara. Your explanation holds very good; I think, however, I 
know of another which fits as well. 

Chas. I should like very much to know it. 

Clara. "Love is blind;" it is an old saying, but always new. 

Chas. Very correct indeed; and I still know of another. 

Clara. Do not keep it^for yourself. 

Chas. "Lovers will quarrel;" and do you think we have had 
enough of that? 

Clara. This saying does not suit me at all, and I protest against 
it; because we might be apt to say, the more quarreling the more 
love. And, supposing, we should have another misunderstanding, 
or a falling out, when would it end? Or may I infer, that, in order 
to love, you always want to be on the war-path? 

ChaS' By heavens, no! I am the last one to call on that evil 
spirit. 

Clara. Supposing, I mend the meaning of the phrase and make 
it "the less quarreling and the more love;" would there not be 
more symphony to it? 

Chas. I must agree with you. 

Clara. Again, Charles, if our love be one, shoidd then, all of a 
sudden, one-half become refractory and run away like a bad school- 

Chas. Then I say the ill-behaving part must be punished. 

Clara. I take you by your word. Therefore, hereafter, when 
you frown, I will smile; when you are melancholy, I will be indif- 
ferent; when you become angry, I will laugh; when you are 
despondent, I will use you for my merriment and give you plenty 
of time to become good again. 

Chas. Supposing, you should frown; or become melancholy, or 
indifferent, or angry, or despondent, what am I to do? 

Clara. No qviarters given to anybody. 

Chas. Here, then, is my hand to seal onr friendship as of old. 

Clara. And here is mine to make the old treat\' new. 

Chas. Then everything is understood, 

Clara. I now must leave you, Charles. I have to attend to the 
reception of our guests, who are soon expected to arrive. I have 
taken a walk to this place and I am glad of having done so. 

Chas. And I rejoice of its good results. 

Clara. Of course, you will be present at our entertainment. 



LOVE INTRIGULS. 13 

Ghas. If I should attend, I prefer to do so at a later hour. 

Clara. Adieu, Charles, and do not fail to come. 

Chas. Adieu, dearest, much pleasure to you. {Exeiint. 



SCENE III — A Lawn, on the Plantation of Loudon. 

Enter Loudon- and Leonoe; afterwards Claea and Edmonds and 
other couples; while in the background other ladies and gentle- 
men may be seen 2:>romenading. 

Loudon. This, your visit to us, gives you a greater scope to 
become more familiar w^ith our people, generally. 

Leonor. 1 think 1 know the people of this country very well by 
this time; and, to a great extent, have adopted many of their cus- 
toms and ways. 

Loudon. But the beauties of our rural life^ I presume, you have 
not;;fully realized yet. 

Leonor. I must confess, the mere thought of it has always created 
an aversion in me; however, for reasons, which I cannot explain, it 
begins to be more attractive to me. 

Loudon. On this mount we can oversee the whole valley. As far 
as the eye can reach, the soil is under fertile cultivation. It is 
peopled with wealthy neighbors, who are very kind and intelligent, 
and with whom we live in mutual friendship. 

Leonor. Very pleasant surroundings, indeed. 

Loudon. Yonder stretches out the lake, with its mirror-like sur- 
face. 

Leonor. A grand view. 

Loudon. Whereon, in summer nights, we row, in skiffs and 
canoes, over its length and breadth, and listen to the sweet strains 
of music, which our younger friends regale us with; while on those 
ridges, stretching out before us, one may behold, in picturesque 
troupes, the negroes; some sitting around fires; others dancing their 
favorite jig; while their merry song, with the ringing sound of the 
banjo, strike our ear; thus, the whole affording us an incomparably 
weird and fascinating view. 

Leonor. Such romantic scenes the artists bring to canvas; but 
their task must fall short to the one who beholds these pictures in 
reality. 

Loudon. Neither can the pen do justice to the silent solitude 
which pervades nature; nor can words express the secret whisper- 
ing that fills our soul, when we contemplate this magic grandeur, 
whose meaning is eternity, and which can be understood by every- 
body who devotes a little time and reflection to it. 

Leonor. I have lived my life in cities and found attraction in the 
wit of society and in the doings of the world; outside of that I 
thought all was dead and lifeless; but I am candid and confess my 
error. [Exeunt. 



14 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

Enter Richards and Lady. 

Lady. You accuse us ladies of being cruel; this cannot be, because 
we are the passive part. 

Leonor. But in this passiveness, young ladies evince their great- 
est activity; and, I may say, are the most successful. 

Lady. This needs explanation. 

BicJi. I mean by their charms that they conquer; and, in many 
instances, by setting, what you might call traps, for the gentlemen. 

Lady. "Setting traps for the gentlemen?" The idea! when we 
have to sharpen all our wits to meet their flattery. 

Fdch. I beg pardon ; I, myself, would like to be caught in such a 

trap. 

Lady. In this case, the trap is open. 

Rich. Of what nature is it? 

Lady. That is for you to test. 

Rich. Supposing, then, I would ask you to become my love; what 
would you say? 

Lady. Yes. 

Rich. What does it mean? 

Lady. It means "yes — " 

Rich. I would wager everything in the world it means "no." 

Lady. No. 

Rich. Now, what do you mean? 

Lady. Nothing at all. 

Rich. That was a trap indeed. 

Lady. You have set it yourself. 

Rich. Are you in earnest? 

L'Mly. I never intend to get married. 

Rich- You are a monster. 

Lady. I'll tell my ma. 

Rich. What do I care? [JSxcimt. 

Re-enter Loudon and Leonor. 

Loudon. Before us is our fountain-spring, whose crystal waters 
never cease their flowing, day or night, winter or summer. It is 
hewn, as it were, in rocks, and no human art could have ecjualled it, 
in form and design. This eternal spring gives us much nourish- 
ment for the mind, and its moral is so well adapted to our own 
existence: Its source is a mystery, confounding reason itself; it 
comes out of the bosom of the earth; it sustains the animal and 
vegetable world, and is eventually swallowed up by its own kind. 
Well might we draw a parallel between it and our own life, by ask- 
ing: Is it lost or not lost; is it death or is it life? 

Leonor. I am undecided, sir, which to admire most, your own per- 
ceptive mind, or the great objects you draw my attention to. 

Loudon. Then man's labor in the fields, or in the wild forests, 
gives us much to reflect upon, as the piercing sounds of the axe 
and theihushed noise of the spade and hoe, are the greatest eloquence 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 15 

of a thriving civilization. Tlien we have the soil, the climate, 
the temjicrature, the manifold species of animals, cereals and 
plants, and so many other numerous objects, which keep our minds 
in constant employ; thus uature, herself, leading us on as the 
great Preceptor. 

Leonor. You are unfolding to me the wonders of a new world. 

Loudon. Now, if acceptable, madame, we will walk on, to meet 
the other guests, who have now almost all arrived, I presume; and 
you may amuse yourself in a different manner, wJiich, perhaps, 
will be more pleasing to you. 

Leonor. Many thanks. \^E.rxunt. 

Enter Clara and Edmonds. 

Edmonds. No change in your mind? and still so fully and 
firmly determined! ,No, it cannot be so, knowing each other as we 
do, from earliest childhood. 

Clara. I must be sincere to you as well as to myself. 

Edmonds. Do you want tests of my faith? Do ) ou want sacri- 
fies of me? Do you want my life? Speak, wish, command and 
convince yourself that I would do all to make you happy. 

Clara. Please remember, my friend, that love is not a duty 
which one owes to another, and that in my choice, I ought to be left 
as free as you are in yours. 

Edmonds. You are making my heart bleed. 

Clara. You act very strange; because I have expressed myself 
several times. 

Edm.onds. Is there one spark of hope left for me? 

Clara. You are very cruel to me, because it hurts me to offend 
you. 

Edmonds. Speech, then, made me wretched; but silence will be 
my death.' 

Clara. Not that; I love to speak with you on any other subject. 

Edmonds. I thank you. 

Clara. Shall we join the other party? 

Edmonds. I leave it to your choice. [Exeunt. 

Enter Gent and Lady. 

Lady. Dancing is a great source for conversation; the prepara- 
tions first and the incidents afterwards. 
Gent. You are right, very right, indeed. 

Lady. So it has been in times past, and so it will be in the 
future; and my mother, who is rather an aged lady, can never for- 
get the amusements she had while she was young. 

Gent. I never knew that ladies remember these things so long. 

Lady. She talks very frequently about them; what styles of 
dances they danced, whom she danced with, and all other details; 
and she mentions all that so often, that lam just as familiar with it 
as she is. 



16 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

Gent. And don't you think that we gentlemen enjoy ourselves, 
too? 

Lady. Maybe it is equally divided. 

Gent. And to whom do you think we owe all this? 

Lady. To society in general. 

Gent. Not at all; not at all, if you please! We owe everything 
to the youtig ladies. If it were not for them, we would never have 
a dance; never, never! This is as plain as daylight; sweet crea- 
tures the ladies all are. 

Jjady. And I believe that the young gentlemen deserve all 
thanks, because it is they that originate all our amusements ; they 
are the ones! 

Gent. This is a mistake; suppose all young ladies in this neigh- 
borhood would run away, (which heaven forbid), would we ever 
have a dance? and suppose all would come back again, we would 
have a dance immediately; den't you see where the origin and 
cause is? 

Lady. I believe you are right. 

Gent. Dancing serves also for courtship. 

Ijady. Aiji't j^ou ashamed of yourself? 

Gent. I blush all over. 

Lady, It is for amusement only. 

Gent. For nothing else! 

Lady. And for pass-time. 

Gent. And! 

Jjady. Not for courting. 

Gent. You don't say so! 

Lady. I'll not speak to you any more. 

GenL Then we will dance for amusemont only. \Ea&\ijnt. 



SCENE IV. — A Room in, the House of Loudon. 
Enter Loudon and Leonor/ afterwards Clara. 

Loudon. You had scarcely time to make our acquaintance, and 
your leaving us so suddenly causes us much regret. 

Leonor. I am. sorry that I am compelled to break off ni}^ visit, as 
matters of great importance demand my presence in the citv; and 
just to please all, I tarried here longer than I intended. 

Loudon. We must find ourselves in the inevitable. 

Leonor. I owe you, sir, and all friends many thanks, as all have 
been so polite and attentive to me; and, not wishing to disturb 
the happy assemblage, through my leaving, I beg you, sir, to give 
them my compliments, one and all. 

Loudon. It shall be done; and one thing, be so kind to bear in 
mind, that you will find our house and home ever ready to receive 
you, and that you may partake of our hospitality in its widest 
sense. 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 17 

Leonor. Many tlianks! And as to your indisposition, which came 
on you so suddenly, I trust that it will be of no duration, and that 
we will soon have the pleasure of seeing you in our city, in the best 
of health and spirits. Now adieu! [^Exit. 

Zioudon. My best wishes with you! Scarcely have I made her 
acquaintance and my heart is like cleft in twain. She is gone, 
gone; but her memory lives with me. I would give worlds to 
possess her and call her my own; but it cannot be, as a hundred 
barriers are between us. What, can I not choose"? What mortal 
dares to tell me, this you might do, that you must relinquish; this is 
your sphere, and that your limit. Am I a slave to anybody, if 1 
am not already the slave to my own wavering and indecision? or 
am I to be chained forever to a particular mode of life? Do I not 
breathe the free air, and can I not move as I desire? This is plain 
reasoning, but 1 must be cautious and act with foresight and discre- 
tion. I must reflect, of myself, of my advanced years, of my stand- 
ing and manhood; all these forbid me to act in haste. Then comes 
her own predilection; she is wooed and loved by men, who, as 
to her, are my superiors. Ah, this pierces like daggers; it is here 
that I am weak and powerless, and is it here where my defeat lies. 
Impossible! I cannot reach the end. I will cut loose, as I must 
save myself. Away, then, from my eyes and mind, with that 
spectre that disturbs my peace! Away with that beautiful serpent 
that gnaws in my bosom and drinks the life-blood out of me! 
Begone apparition and tormentor! Ah, you cannot disturb me in 
my quiet! I do not love you; I hate you; I detest you; nay, I 
curse you! What, what, have I said"? uttered a curse? Have I lost 
my reason, and has it come so far*? No, it is not so; she has done 
me no harm; she is kind and good; she is as innocent as a child. 
No, no, I bless her; I bless the ground she treads upon. It is her 
eye, her brow, her lips, her speech, and even her shadow, which 
enchant me, so that I could fall upon my knees and worship her as 
my goddess! [Distant voices commingled with laughter and discon- 
nected tnusical sounds are heard.) 5fouth rejoices; it partakes of 
the pleasures and claims the world; but myself, I am doomed to 
linger away rny days in privation and solitude. Soon old age will 
creep on me, to thrust its iron grasp over my frame, making me 
weak and palsied, carving deep furrows in my face, dimming my 
eye-sight and causing me to move on with tottering and trembling 
step. Then, at last, at the touch of death, to the goal of mortals, 
the grave— I shudder! Is this my destiny"? No, it cannot be! I 
am not lost to myself; I am not dead to the world; I breathe, I 
live; I am active, I am strong! Were, therefore, mountains 
between, that stretch their peaks into the invisible heights of the 
heavens; were rivers, with cataracts and whirlpools to cross; were 
chasms before me, whose depth, to look down upon, would make 
my blood chill with horror; were deserts to pass;| had prison- 
chains to be broken asunder; what is all that to me'? My heart 
longs to win and possess her as m}' own! What is that? I hear 



18 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

footsteps; somebody is coming. Vanish feelings and thoughts; I 
must be myself again. 

Enter Clara. 

Clara. Are you unwell, papa? Miss Leonor informed me that 
vou were indisposed, and advised me to attend to your wants and 
see to your comfort. 

Loudon. Be at ease; it is of no consequence. 

Clara. Are you suffering pain, father; do tell me? 

Loudon. It is one of those disturbances, caused by the blood, 
when not circulating properly. In such instances it is best to let 
nature take its own course. 

Clara. Your eyes look restless, and the expression of your face 
indicates excitement or perhaps pain. 

Ljoudon. Do not trouble yourself; a little rest will do all to 
restore the various members of the body to activity again. 

Clara. I feel that I ought to press the words from your lips that 
vou suffer. I pray you, father, spare me the pangs of asking 
further questions; but speak, command, what I shall do for you, 
as no task is too difficult and no labor too much for me. 

Loudon. I can say no more than I have said. 

Clara. I know that, with intent, you withhold from me the truth 
of your suffering; and the mere thought of my inactivity makes 
me a fit subject for the sick-bed. No, you cannot do this, you can- 
not act towards me in this manner; for these secret and sudden 
attacks are to be more dreaded than the slow course of a sickness; 
and, if 1 am anything to you, I pray you, let me give 3'ou some 
relief. You are unwell, your look is unsteady, there is fever on 
you, and I believe your voice betrays it. Nay, I must stay here; 
I must watch every movement of yours. No, no, I will not move 
from your side! Therefore, speak; speak freely, so that I may be 
able to alleviate your suffering. 

Loudon. My cwn dear child, may heaven bless you! May you 
always be happy. You are my all I possess in this world. You 
are the image of your mother, whom once I s(j tenderly loved and 
whose memory I still so fervently cherish. She departed her life 
when you were quite young in years, when you could not realize 
yet what passed on around you. I well remember a certain 
incident; it was immediately before she breathed her last; she had 
beckoned us to come to her bedside; I understood her and lifted 
vou on her bed. She then pressed a kiss on your lips, uttered a 
benediction for you and begged me to take care of and protect* 
you; she, thereupon, fell back on her pillow and gave up her spirit. 
I, then and there, vowed to care for you and to protect you, just as 
slie wished it; and heaven knows I have done so up to this day. 
What these tears for, Clara"? Do not weep, it makes me unhappy. 
Clara. What language are yon using, father? I have never heard 
you speak thus before. Your address is so earnest and full of 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 19 

meaning, that it leaves no doubt of your g-rief and suffering. 
Should it signify danger, oh, heaven! help and protect me! 

Loudon. It is your devotion and sympathy for me, my child, 
which causes me to speak so earnestly to you, I beg you again, 
leave me! Go and attend to your guests. I assure you it is noth- 
ing; nothing, whatsoever, ails me. And, if you do care for me, 
obey my wishes. 

Clara. I will no longer be contrary to you; and if you believe 
that rest will restore you, it is my bounden duty to contribute my 
part, in leaving you; trusting and hoping, as I do, for the speedy 
restoration of your health. [^Exit. 

Loudon. Existence of care and toil; error is thy beginning, error 
thy end! The short span of time of our life, is like a river, where 
our frail body with a spirit is placed upon, whereon we descend 
in its continuous windings, drifting along its rapid current, seem- 
ingly beyond our will and control; or, like a tree, whose trunk 
begets branches, and these again beget numberless branches, and 
these follow out the same coui-se in the myriads of leaves; so. too, 
the human mind may follow out this labyrinthof the wandering and 
drifting of man, but in this effort, it, at best, is caught in its own 
meshes. Creation is endless, and man, in his frailty, seeks to hll out 
the blank by the desires of the flesh. But, alter all, what use is it 
to accuse nature, or ourselves, because we do not reach perfection 
sublime? The world, withal, remains the world; virtue is virtue; 
passion remains passion; the fields and meadows are green; flow- 
ers give forth their fragrance and wither and die; storms are vio- 
lent and destructive; it suffices that the world is a whole, and that" 
in its design it is vjhole and complete. I am possessed of a spirit; 
I have ideas, passions, a will, a mind; why question each one of 
my faculties, then, I am lost to myself. Away, then, with specula- 
tive reasoning; I shall make use of my powers and follow out my 
rightful inclinations and purposes ! \Ex!t. 

[exd act I.] 



ACT II. 

SCENE 1. — A Room in the House of Thomas, Situated in the 

Neighborhood of the Plantation of Lnidon. 

Thomas and Wife', aftenoards Tom. 

Thomas. The conduct of Charles puzzles me very much. 

Mrs. Thomas. He is tired out; have a little patience with him. 

Thomas. There is something wrong going on with him; he is 
pondering and thinking all the time about something; audit seems 
to me to be over a very serious mattei'. 1 noticed that, at various 



20 LOVE INTRLGUES. 

times, he sighed deeply; and, at other times, I saw and heard him 
talking to himself; then he is down-hearted and looks scarcely 
anybody in the face; I never knew him to be so. 

Mrs. Thomas. He has been studying very hard, and he now feels 
the eftects of it. 

Thomas. I have, so far, in no manner disturbed him in any of his 
doings; I have always let him have his own way; but, just think, 
a young man, in the prime of his years, enjoying good health, 
ought he not to be full of life and energy? Instead of this, he is 
morose, he is absent-minded, and avoids the company of every- 
body, we, ourselves, included. 

Mrs. Thomas. It hurts me to hear you speak of him in this man- 
ner; because Charles always was a well-behaved and industrious 
boy; he received the highest honors at school, and everybody likes 
him and speaks well of him. 

Thomas. What has that to do with his present doings? 

Mrs. Thomas. Perhaps nothing; but you are fault-finding with 
everybody and everything. 

Thomas. Shall I be silent? 

Mrs. Thomas. I don't care what you do. 

Thoma*. Let him go on then; I am satisfied. 

Mrs. Thomas. What do you want him to do? 

Thomas. I want him to be practical; I want him to live in the 
world and with the world; I want him to be a man; for that I gave 
him the benefit of my practical knowledge and experience. Or, is 
he a book-worm? Then I wish he had become a blacksmith, like 
myself, and be of some use to the world. 

Mrs. Thomas. 1 can't see what you argue about; he doesn't study 
at all, and because he don't study you are dissatisfied; and were he 
to study, it would be wrong, too^ because you don't want him to be 
a book- worm; what do you want of him? 

Thomas. Studying or not studying, I don't mindjit; but I hate to 
see him going about like a shadow. Or, is he a dreamer? how, 
then, is he to make a living? 

Mrs. Thomas. A person never feels one day like another. 

Thomas. This is not a question of a day or two; but it has been 
going on for a long time, and too long for me to stand it. 

3£rs. Thomas. You are too exacting. Young people are brought 
up difi"erently now-a-days than they were in our times. You and 
I were raised in the mountains. When a stranger came in the 
valley, it went from mouth to mouth, and almost the whole county 
would know it the same day; when a person got a letter through 
the post-office, that was a great event. I remember when my 
grandfather went once to the city; he brought me a pair of fancy- 
stitched shoes; and I looked at them day and night, and used them 
up by handling and looking at them, and did not wear them at all. 
Young folks are different now, and things have changed since our 
days. 

Thomas. I never bother with nonsense. I had to work in my 



LOVE INTRIGULS. 21 

swejtt and earned my money with the forge-hammer. I was beating 
the red-hot iron, that the sparks flew about me and scorched my 
face; I did it for years — summer and winter, early and late; and 
for whom have I done it? Many a night my bones ached me from 
fatigue and exhaustion, so that I was deprived of my sleep. I have 
done it, and have done it cheerfully, expecting, as I did, that our 
son would be a comfort to our old age. 

3Irs. Thomas. You have no cause to speak of him in this manner. 
The boy has done nothing bad; he has not stolen, he has not robbed, 
he does not dissipat*^, he don't go in bad company he wrongs 
nobody; what shall he do? Do you want to drive him out of the 
house? Do it and you will kill me, too. 

Thomas. I wish our boy no harm. I have worked for him, it is 
true; and I have loved to work for him, is also true, because he 
deserved it; I only want the best for him, and that for his own 
good; everything else is secondary and ought to satisfy you or 
anybody else. 

Mrs. Thomas. I have prayed day and night for the hour to come 
that he could be with us again; and, now, as he is here, I have no 
rest. 

Thomas. For heaven's sake, what is the use of carrying on in 
this manner, because I talked a little severe? Where is the dam- 
age I have done; where is the injury? Can I not talk in my own 
house? Must I weigh every word I speak? I am the last one to 
wish our boy harm; he can remain under our roof as long as he 
wants to; he may sit at our table, eat of our bread, as long as he 
chooses, and never would I ask him a question. 

Mrs. Thomas. I know you too well; to-morrow you will have 
something else to preach about. 

Thomas. It is awful to commence anything with women. When 
their tongues are of no more avail, they come with tears, then with 
threats, and so they become worse and worse; and what can one do? 
They know how to manage a man! 

3Irs. Thomas. After one has done everything for peace and har- 
mony, all is wrong, anyhow; and no matter what I say or do, it is 
wrong, and whatever you say or do, it is right and nice. 

Thomas. You are right in everything. I am wrong and you are 
right, and you are right and I am wrong. I will never open my 
mouth again. You and your son, together, may do what you please. 
{Knocks are heard from loithin.) 

Mrs. Thomas. Who can that be? 

Tom. ( Withiri.) Is she heah? 

Thomas. What do you want? 

Mrs. Thomas. It is that old nigger-fool, Tom. 

Thotnas. You have nothing in the shop; have you? 

Enter Tom. 
Tom. I'm lookin' for my mare, ^boss; she got crazy las' night, 



n LOVE INTRIGUES. 

an' run ofif; de truff am, de whole house am runnin' crazy; an' de 
white folks, de diggers, de horses, an' de mules; day all got it from 
de frolic yesterday; all is spell-mell, as young mistress says. 

Thomas. Are you looking for the mare, I shod about a week 
ago? 

Tom. Yes, massa; don't know what got in her head; it must hab 
been de music an' de dancin' dat made her dance away. 

Thomas. You don't give her anything to eat; that is the reason 
she runs off; and in a blacksmith shop she is not likely to lind any- 
thing; you must look for her somewhere else. 

Tom. No, boss, she's gettin' a plenty; 1 tend to her like a chile; 
pvery time I does. When I got her, she was all bone, an' now 
she's fat like a hog. I knows 'twas nuffin else den de fuss we had 
over dar, dat drove her 'way, 'cause everybody got dat a- way; an' 
de Lor' bless me, I don't blame her, 'cause I was kinder tipsy-topsy 
myself. 

Thomas. You needn't fear, she'll soon come back to you. 

Mrs. Thomas. You must have had a gay old time at your place. 

T'om. If you hab'n't see dat, mam, you see nuffin', nuffin' at 
all. Yer should hab see de cookin', de bakin', de movin', de scrub- 
bin', and de eatin', an' de drinkin', an' dancin'; I never see such 
frolic in all de days ob my life. 

3Irs. TJiomas. Miss Clara has got to be a very fine young lady, 

Tom. Mighty right, mam; no tiner lady in de country. 

J/rs. Thomas. This is the first entertainment gotten up by her 
since she returned, I believe. 

Tom. I guess so; an' 'cause of de young gem'en, an' 'cause of 
dere courtin' of her. I sees what's gwine on; I knows what's de 
matter, an' I knows dat massa an' young mistress are gwine to keep 
up de fun. 

Mrs. Thomas. Rich people can afford it. 

Tom.. Yer knows, mam, when cotton's gwine come up, den 
comes de flowers, den a nudder, den a nudder, an' so it keeps gwine 
on; den comes de bolls, an' dey all's gwine to come, an' de whole 
cotton-field's full, an' de crop's made. 

Mrs. Thom,ns. The young lady is to be married soon ; is that 
what you mean'? 

Tom. Yer don't know what I knows; an' what I knows is a heap; 
'cause I saw it, an' 'cause I knows it. 

Mrs. Thomas. There is more in you than you let on. 

Tom. Dere's just whar yer's got it. I's no fool; an' den it stays in 
de family; don't yer tells it. I see'd it, yer bet; just like I did wid 
Jane, when we played sweethearts; de Lor' bless me, 'dose good ole 
times I never sees agin. 

Mrs. Thomas. Who was it, Tom; whom have you seen? 

Tom. 'Twasn't anybody, an' 'cause 'twasn't anybody 'twas no- 
body. 

Mrs. Thomas. I ought not to have questioned you, Tom, but you 
brought me the story yourself. 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 23 

Tom. No story 't'all; ole Tom tells no story; an' 'cause yer say 
I tells stories, I tells yer what 'tis; an' 'cause it remains in de 
family, an' 'cause 'tis no harm to tell yer folks, an' 'cause 3er are 
^ood sorter people. It was Mr. Charles an' young mistress. I 
oughtn't tell, but 'tis too nice to keep, an' 'cause we soon hab a 
weddin', an' dancin', an' music, an' wine, an' lemonade, an' water 
agin. 

Thomas. You never saw our boy and Miss Clara courting each 
other; you must have dreamed it. 

Tom. I knows what I'm talkin'. I see'd them; 'twas just 'fore 
dancin', an' 'fore de musicianers come; I saw dem, 'tis dead sure; 
no mistake at all; I was just la^dn' 'hind a bush of trees, an' yer 
bet I kept down an' quiet; I just had a nap, an' just woke up. 

3Irs. Thomas. Could you hear them speak? 

Tom. 'Course I did, just as plain as day. 

Thomas. Let's hear what they said; I would like to know whether 
you are not mistaken. 

Tom. Well, boss, T hear dem speakin', but I couldn't understand 
nary thing; dey just talked like all fine folks talk in dose fine rooms 
where dey hab carpets an' gold lamps, an' such things. I thought 
fust dey're a talkin' French, 'cause I couldn't understand what dey 
was a talkin' about, an' 'cause it was so fine; but I knows 'twasn't 
French; an' it sound mighty fine, an' I tiiought dey're a talkin' 
candy, ladies-fingers, dough-nuts, ginger-cakes; but I knows 'twas 
nary thing of dat; 'twas no candy^ no ladies-fingers, no dough-nuts, 
an' no ginger-cakes; nuffin of de kind. 

Thomas. What do you think they meant? 

Tom. Well, boss, dey was a playin' sweet-hearcin'. . 

3Irs. Thomas. How do you know; you said you couldn't under- 
stand what they said? 

Tom. I knows all 'bout it, 'cause I was dar myself; an' 'cause 
dey talked so sweet together; but I got fooled dis time, 'cause dev 
didn't kiss. I made eyes as big as the moon, but I got left; dat 
must be de new way; 'cause in my days 'twasn't so; an' when I 
was young, I was boss 'mong de nigger girls, 'cause I hugged an' 
kissed 'em, an' 'cause dey liked me for that. De Lor' bless me, 
dose good ole times, dey nebber come back agin. Good-bye, folks; 
de Lor' bless yer; I must look for my mare. [^E.xit. 

Thomas. Have you heard that? 

Mrs. Thom,as. I did. 

Thomas. What we, with our wits, could not detect, this ignorant 
negro had sense, or was stupid enough, to find out, and give us the 
key to. 
- ^Irs. Thomas. I would not bother about it. 

Thomas. I cannot atl'ord to be silent, 

3frs. Thomas. Do jou think that such an affair, if true, could 
make him down-hearted? 

Thom.as. It is that, and nothing else. 

Mrs. Thomas. It is probable that Charles is ambitious; that he 



24 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

imagines that, with our limited means, and with our humble posi- 
tion, he cannot reach a certain end in life, which he is longing for. 

Thomas. I know too well, that that aristocrat, over there, will 
never consent to such a match; because for that man, there exists 
only lords and over-bearing men and women. He looks down on 
us people like we were not fit even to black his boots; because a 
nigger would have to do it; he has an only daughter, and looks for 
her very high, (yharles knows it, and is very far from the mark; 
and for this reason he is down-cast and absent-minded. 

3frs. Thomas. I scarcely know what to sa3^ 

Thomas. This will never do; he is just from school and plays 
"sweet-heartin'," as that negro says; no, this will never do! He 
has no position or standing in the world, and he stretches out his 
hand for something which is altogether out of his reach. 

3frs. Thotnas. You don't know, whether it is so or not; he might 
have been taking a walk with the young lady. I hear that all 
the young ladies speak well of him, and that they like him; and if 
he wants to associate with them, let him do so; because he can 
learn good manners of them. 

Thomas. What do I care for your manners, or for your young 
ladies, or for your old ones f 

Mrs. Thomas. Can you rely on what that old fool of a nigger has 
said? 

Thomas. You are never embarrassed for some kind of an excuse 
for him. 

M7's. Thomas. Y^ou have no proof of anything. 

Thomas. These people do not associate with us, and never will. 
There is wealth; there is family pride; there is extravagance and 
luxury; and, in their conceit, whetiier true or not, trace their ances- 
try back to French and English k'ngs. What have you, or I, or our 
son, to do with these people ? 

Mrs. Thomas. What do you intend to do? 

Thomas. Nothing less than to get all his romantic notions out of 
his head, and that before long. 

3frs. Thomas. I fear you will make things five times worse. 

Thomas. Let me see to that. I will attend to my work matters, 
and, in the meantime, the gentleman will make his appearance; and 
I propose to have a little talk with him. 

3Irs. Thomas. And I will attend to my household duties; and, by 
that time, I hope your temper will have sufficiently cooled down. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE II. — A Lawn near the Plantation. 

Charles and ('lara. 

Chas. I am very happy to find you at your favorite resort; and 
now tell me what news have you for me. 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 25 

Clara. My father became indisposed; lie thoujrht a change of 
atmosphere would do him some good, and left for the city to remain 
there awhile. 

C/ias. I presume you feel very lonesome. 

Clara. Not very, because I read occasionally; then, every now 
and then, I expect to receive a visit from a friend, or, to have a 
pleasant chat with you. 

Chas. Do you think, dearest, that we oug-ht to guard our secret 
much longer? 

Clara. What prompts you to ask this question? 

Chas. Because it gnaws at my heart, and it almost becomes un- 
bearable to me; for I feel so proud of your I ive that I think the 
whole world should know it, and to play o(f, to deny myself, to 
deny you, is the greatest torture to me. 

Clara. As long as we understand each other, it matters nothing. 
Let us guard us our secret a little longer; maybe time and other 
favorable turns will come to our aid. 

Chas. Do you count on differences we might have to 
encounter? 

Clara. I count on nothing; but, if a storm should come, let us 
meet it bravely. 

Chas. To be more direct; how would your fjither view the rela- 
tion we hold to each other, were he to know it? 

Clara. He gives me the greatest liberty in everything, and 
restricts me in nothing; he has always been so kind to me. 

Chas- I mean the consumaticm of our love into marriage, which, 
eventually, our aim is directed to. At any rate, you are familiar 
with his ways, or know his views. 

Clara. As you ask me so directl}^, 1 must ajiswer. I suspect he 
wants me to marry into one of the wealthier families that form our 
acquaintance; and for this reason, I fear, it will be a test for me. 

Chas. I, too, entertain fears that I will meet with obstacles. 

Clara. Of what nature are they? 

Chas. My father prides himself of being independent, 

Clara. What has this to do with the diflBculties you fear? 

Chas. Only so much, that if j^our father should oliject, mine 
would be still more obstinate. 

Clara. I admire such a free and strong spirit. 

Chas. Because my father cannot divest himself of the ideas which 
he imbibed in his younger years; he values labor, while modern ideas 
are seemingly against it; he imagines that he is disliked for that, 
and he dislikes or hates society in return. 

Clara. I esteem his sentiments; for the plow is mori^ necessary 
than the liveried coach, and the axe, more useful than the sword. 

Chas. This is one great reason why I so much admire and love 
you, because you ])OSsess the courage and will, to rise above the 
unnatural drift of ideas of society and man. 

Clara. And will your father make opposition, because he meets 
with opposition? , 



•iij LOVE INTRIGUES. 

Chas. Like yoursell", Clara, I know nothing positive. 

Clara,. It is so unrortunate that we have to act in secret. 

(J/tas. As you first sviggested, let us leave our plans with the 
future, and let us change our conversation; and the time that is left 
us, let us speak over light matters — of the news of the day, of our 
friends, or of any other topic, we might choose. 

Clara. Well enough; 1 will begin, then, with our late enter- 
tainment, which you missed; of the persons who were there; and 
how we enjoyed ourselves. 

C/ias. I will give you all my attention. [Exeunt. 



SCENE in. — A Room in the House of Thomas. 

Thomas, Impossible! I cannot pass over the matter in silence 
At all events, I must make it my duty to find out what ails him. 
Sh uld his grievance be a love-aflFair, to be just, I have no right to 
meddle with it; but 1 cannot keep quiet when he sacrifices his 
health, and, perhaps, his life; it, therefore, becomes my duty to 
intervene. 

Enter Mks. Thomas. 

Cliarles has not made his appearance yet. 

Mrs. Thomas. This is the usual hour he returns. 

Thon/as. I am becoming impatient. 

]\Ls Thomas. Do you believe, husband, that Charles is so far off 
his dutv, as to induce you to make such a serious affair of it? 

Thomas. It is prudent to stem the current while we have the 
])ovver. If we are indifferent, serious consequences might follow. 

3Irs. Thomas. It is, after all, only a trifling matter; all young 
p(M)i>le court and make love to each other. 

Thomas. What do I care for courting and love-making! He goes 
about like a shadow, and for that reason alone do I want to approach 
him. 

Mrs. Tho)nas. I cannot stop you; it is impossible. 

Thomas. Exactly so. 

3Irs. Thomas. Will you, by all means, raise difficulties and bring 
discord among us? 

Thomas I have just enough of it. I am going to manage this 
business; that settles it. 

Mrs. Thom-AS. Do this, then, for me: let /j?*m do most of the speak- 
ing; make only allusions to his being desponding, because it might 
be something different from what you imagine. And please do not 
embarrass him; make him believe that you are trying to satisfy 
vour curiosity, or that it is to while away your time, or something 
of the sort; will you do this? 

Thomas. I hear him coming. 

Mrs. Tho7nait. I must let you two remain alone; because vrere I 
to stav, it would give this meeting too serious an appearance; and 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 27 

my presence will do him no good, because I know it is iinpossil)ie 
to prevent you from doing what you are determined to do. There- 
fore, husband, I beg you again, moderate your temper, and be, by 
no means, hasty; you are having, altogether, your own way. 

Thomas. Very well, you may go now, [Exit Mrs. Thomas. 

Thomas. It is a very delicate task for me to disturb him in. his 
innermost thoughts; he is timid, and may not want to come out 
with the color. I have got it; I will get it out of him in my own 
way. 

Enter Charles. 

Charles, my son, come near, and let me know where you have 
been, and how you pass your time now-adays. 

Chas. I have been walking along the banks of the lake, father; 
and, my time, I must confess, I ought to employ to ]:)etter advan- 
tage. 

Thomas. I want to have an old-time conversation with you. 

Chas. It is along time since we had one of these; and, 1 must 
say, they always afforded me much pleasure, and were very instruc- 
tive, besides. 

Thomas. Now, my boy, there is no formality necessary between 
us; indeed, I detest all ceremony. 

Chas. This is yourself. 

Thomas. Then, between men of sense and reason, there ought to 
be excluded everything that is lengthy and pompous, because such is 
insincere; or it is often resorted to as an excuse; or it is used as a 
pretext to cover faults and shortcomings. 

Cha^. This, too, coincides with your character. 

Thomas. An idea a word, a look, a hint, may sometimes tell 
volumes, especially when made use of in proper time. 

Chas. An idea, a word, a look, all these may be very effective; 
but I think we should resort to the use of words, with a full mean- 
ing and understanding, especially when one aims to be frank and 
honest. 

Thomas. Correct, my son! Then, I nev r deal in riddles. I 
assume not what I am not, or what I cannot be. And I value and 
spare human feelings, and, by no means, would I disregard yours. 

Chas. Have you anything personally to tell me? 

Thomas. Men are deceitful; on weighty matters they seldom tell 
the truth; either out of selfishness or out of frivolity, or, perhaps, 
out of levity; or they take no interest, or, it may not concern them; 
but I am your parent; I am your best friend; and being, as we are, 
so closely linked together, by nature and affinity, how could I be 
false to you? 

Chas. What do you mean, father? Have I committed a wrong, 
or do you give credence to idle talk of malicious persons? 

Thomas. Far from that, my s ii. I would never think that you 
would be guilty of a wrong or a crime. I would sootier believe it 
of myself. But, here, we are together for ourselves and to our- 



38 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

selves. We can speak, we can reason, on things as they are. We 
must never deceive ourselves; for, by doing this, we become our 
greatest enemies; and, by means of this self-deception, success is 
never attained. On the contrary, mishaps will eventually overtake 
us, then we accuse Providence or fate, when all evil consequences 
are due to our own folly. But age, with its experience, may be a 
guide to guard against the many pitfalls in life, by which we are 
everywhere surrounded; and it is, therefore, well to take heed and to 
liste>i. 

Chas. I perceive, father, where y< u direct my attention ; to 
live questions; what our duties and responsibilities are. Grand 
themes they are; they cannot be too much commented upon. 

Thomas. I am very glad, my son, that you perceive certain 
things in their true light. 

Chas. And a theme like duty, so broad in meaning and concep- 
tion, never l:)ecomes old; because, as the world progresses, so does 
man; and our duties must keep even pace. 

Thomas. Correct, my son! And all new duties are based on old 
ones; for they are the foundation, and the new duties form the 
superstructure. 

(7A«s. I know ot several duties which you have instilled into my 
mind, and which I well remember from my earliest childhood, 
namely, to make my acts correspond with my words; never to mean 
one thing and do another; and ever so many other precepts which 
1 will never forget. 

Thomas. Youth is^ at best, heedless. It seldom investigates any- 
thing; all is but for the moment. You can compare it to an infant, 
holding out its little hands, ready to grasp at anything it sees; be- 
cause every object stands too near its eyes, as nature has not given 
it yet the reason of measurement, which only comes with maturer 
age. 

Chas. What you have said, father, are word-pictures. Practical 
examples would make your illustration much stronger, and it seems 
there is something of the kind lurking in your mind, which, I sug- 
gest you might give out at once. 

Thomas. Well, my son, what is a love-affair? 

Chas. This changes our subject. 

Thomas. It is the continuance. 

Chas. It may be answered in many ways. 

Thomas. And how do you define yours with our rich neighbor's 
daughter? 

Chas. {Surprised) It is no crime. 

Thomas. But how is it, when one is abs-nt-minded; when he 
knows nobody; when he scarcely speaks; when he takes no time to 
eat, as is the case with you; how can y.u explain that? 

Chas. Admitting your personal remarks; is a love-aifair equal to 
ruin, to dangers and calamities, as you seem to make it appear? 

Thomas. Beware, ray son, you cannot reach what you aim at. I 
must warn you not to commit a folly on yourself; and it is my 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 29 

duty to tell you to get such ideas out of your mind, because, for you, 
they are impossibilities. Can you not realize your position, and that 
you practice on yourself the greatest deception ? 

Chas. In searching for happiness, we are not apt to look for mis- 
fortune. We are human, and our nature is not so complete as to 
embrace both ends of our life. This would make us all-wise or 
demi-gods; it would leave us no scope to hope, to wish, to fear; all 
we are required to do is, to be honest and sincere. 

Thomas. But honor and making a false step are two things. You 
are inexperienced; it is your credulity that leads you. Take heed 
of what I say. A little flirting, which young girls practice with 
you, do you take that for true coin? There is where it is; have I 
guessed right*? 

Chas. I cannot see what you have guessed. 

Thomas. I can give you a better explanation — according to the 
romantic notions of young people, love dwells in a neat little house; 
of course it stands in the air. It is made out of the dantiest tis- 
sues; the walls are sugar-coated; the tables are full with all kinds 
of edibles and sweets; all one has to do is to help himself. Then 
in front of this darling little house is a nice garden, and beautiful 
trees, and flower-beds and smooth walks are there graded with sea- 
shells; all one has to do is to take it easy. Then in the air are yel- 
low canary birds flying about, whistling all sorts of love-songs; 
isn't that nice ? And are these the things you fill your mind with? 
Have you ambition? then work out your fortune with your own 
hands, and waste not yeur time in watching for things that are out 
of your reach. Be proud of yourself, and hold up your head as 
high as the next one, and go about like a man and not like a 
shadow! 

Chas. (After a silence.) I am not prepared to answer. 

Thomas, I feel for you that you should not be made the laugh- 
ing stock; or the foot-ball, to be kicked or pushed at, at pleasure. 
Your feelings, your pride, your manhood, are at stake. Yes, love 
may be sweet for awhile, but to be jilted from people, who consider 
themselves above you, ah! this is bitter, it galls, it pains, it goes to 
the very back-bone; therefore, I tell you, now, if you have feel- 
ings, and want them spared, look to yourself alone. 

Chas. Iwish, by no means, to act against your wishes, or to be 
disobedient to you, father. I believe in honesty, and you have 
taught me to be honest. I must tell the young lady to release me 
from my pledges; I must tell her my father warned me of being 
jilted; that my honor, pride and manhood are at stake; that my 
father is opposed, because she is wealthy, and I am poor; that my 
•father is a workman; I will tell her all that and perhaps more, and 
no doubt you will be delighted with me. 

Thomas. This is not the kind of obedience I expect from you; 
but I should have been asked for advice and consent in this grave 
matter. I only spoke in the manner I did because I intended to 
dispel the clouds that are gathering around you, and which seem 



30 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

to make you unhappy. I only had your good at heart. 'Tis true I 
have taught you to be honest; therefore, be true to yourself, and 
keep your word and promises, and act not dishonorable on my 
account; and, I go a step further, and give you my parental bless- 
ing. The future will tell. \^Ex.it. 

Chas. What folly and eccentricity! Such hatred and aversion 
against wealth, because it is wealth; and on the other side, con- 
tempt against labor, because of itjbeing labor. I, myself, could 
sacrifice my own feelings, because my motives might be construed 
as being selfish; but it is a crime to discard Clara as she is true and 
faithful. Perhaps the wrong is on my side for having let it come 
thus far; but it is done. I must stand wivh her through all ordeals, 
and only death can brine: me off from my purpose and duty. 



SCENE IW .—In the City; a Room in Leonor's Mansion. 
Lkonor, Inez, and afterwards Loudon. 

Intz. The sleep vou have enjoyed has done you much good; 
because the expression of your face is much better than when you 
arrived. 

Leonor. But I am much weaker than I appear, as I am thoroughly 
exhausted. 

Inez. You will soon feel stronger. 

Leonor. It is in grief, then, that I will grow strong. 

Inez. I sent you the message to return to the city, because I 
feared your absence might be construed to your disadvantage. 

Leonor. I approve your course; nevertheless, the change itself, 
and the few hours I remained in the country, have done mo some 
good. 

Inez. First of all, try to be composed. 

Leonor. Tell me, were many people here during my absence, 
and did they inquire for me? 

Inez. Quite a number came. I informed them of your absence 
from the city, and thej immediately left. 

Leonor. And the dueling cavaliers, how are they doing? 

Inez. I understand that both are in a critical condition, and that 
their physicians are in doubt of their recovery. 

Leonor. I cannot realize the magnitude of all this misfortune; 
and in such short space of time! 

Inez. You will soon have the sympathy of the public ; all will 
be well in time. 

Leonor. What is the public to me? I want to return home. I 
live amongst strangers. What do I care for them*? What do they 
care for me ? A little pleasure they have afforded me, that is all. 
Accursed be the hour when I left our native shore! Oh, had I only 
remained ! Give me advice what to do! No, no, I want no advice; 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 3l 

I want to travel home rather to-day than to-morrow; but that cannot 
be, either, fori have no means; I am now poor, and have no friends 
to depend upon. 

Inez. Be reasonable, Leonor; just wait until the gloomy clouds 
have passed away, the outlook will he much brighter. And, then, 
what do you desire to go to South America for? You will only 
add yourself to the distressed. We may grieve over our misfortune 
and bewail our country's calamities as well here as there. 

Leonor, It is the absence from home which makes my present 
condition so much more distressing. I think of our country inces- 
santly; every nook, every corner there is sacred to me; and the 
more I am crushed, the more my heart bleeds, the more my love 
abounds for it. Yes, Inez, we may mourn here, we have good cause 
for it. 

Enter Servant. 

Ser. Mr. Loudon has returned, and desires to wait on madame. 

Leonor. I am ready to receive him. [^Exit /Servant. 

Inez. Now, Leonor, you must not be downcast; you must be 
bright and cheerful. Your toilet is faultless; your hair looks well, 
and you look most charmingly at present; I will see you soon 
again. [Exit. 

Leonor. The world is a farce. People are false and deceitful; 
and each is true, and lives up to his part and role. I, too, must 
acqommodate myself to the hypocritcal customs of society, wear 
a mask, and act my part as necessity demands; here he comes. 

Etiter Loudon. 

I regret I kept you waiting, Mr. Loudon; I felt a little indis- 
posed, but am quite well now, and am delighted to welcome you at 
my home. 

Loudon. Thanks, madame; and I am happy to see you so well. 

Leonor. You are the first visitor I have received since my return 
to the city. 

Loudon. This is good fortune, and a great compliment, besides. 

Leonor. And I consider your visit in the same light. 

Loudon. This is your general disposition, for I have never seen 
you otherwise than well pleased. 

Leonor. Conversation with friends has such a good influence over 
me; and at this time, especially, I value their company more than 
ever. Please tell me how all friends, in your delightful neighbor- 
hood, are! I enjoyed myself so well in their midst; they were all 
so kind to me, especially Miss Clara; how is she, and how are the}' 
alH 

Loudon. You left a lasting good impression amongst us, so that 
we all hope that, at an early day, you will renew your visit, make 
your stay a long one and our friendship lasting. 

Leonor. This is exceedingly kind. Your words give me so much 



32 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

encouragement, and, for this reason, I want to change our conver- 
sation, 

Loudon. I yield to anything that is agreeable to you. 

Leonor. I will inform you, then, that, at the present time, I find 
myself in great embarrassments and need advice; and I beg to ask 
you, whether I can count on your kindness to assist me with your 
good offices. You possess great knowledge and experience of the 
world, while we ladies, on embarrassing occasions, are helpless like 
children, 

Loudon,. Most readily will I serve you. 

Leonor. I am threatened, on all sides, with evil. Perhaps you 
have heard of my misfortune, which came so unexpectedly; and in my 
distress I paid you that visit, expecting, as I did, to find relief; 
but my lady friend sent me a message to return to the city 
immediately; she thought that it would be the best course; and 
here I am in fear, in anguish, and almost in despair. I presume all 
came to your ears, and, if so, it will spare me the pain to unfold to 
you a story of woe and misery. 

Loudon. When you were with us, it was apparent that you were 
troubled, and your sudden departure made us think that there must 
be something strange about it. On that account, I lost no time to 
come to the city, I made inquiries, learned of your misfortune, 
and hastened here to see you and give you my help and assistance. 

Leonor. In my despondency I had accused the world, the whole 
world, of being deceitful; but my opinion was hasty and false, for 
I have friends, and I have true friends; and never will I forget the 
good services which you are about to render me. 

Loudon. Yes you have friends, and you have true friends, and I 
feel myself destined to make our friendship firm and lasting. 

Leo?ior. You inspire me with the fondest hopes, 

Loudon. I am thinking of that friendship which creates, as it 
were, a new existence within us; which reminds us that we are 
born for a good and noble end; which induces us to unfold our bet- 
ter nature — love, kindness, charity, benevolence. Perhaps you 
understand my meaning, but to be more explicit, I beg \ou to 
accept the off"er of my heart and hand. 

Leonor. I am stunned by such a declaration, as I expected to 
hear anything else but this. Ask me, sir, to live or to die, and I can 
answer immediately, as I am ready for either, especially when I 
consider my present forlorn position. 

Loudon. It is because you are in insurmountable difficulties that 
I am induced to declare myself to you; however, if I have done 
wrong, or given you oifence, heaven knows I had no such intention 
and I beg your forgiveness, 

Leonor. I would never take it as an offence, I was only surprised, 
because such a request is so inopportune at present; but we will 
consider the matter another time. 

Loudon. Perhaps this is the right moment; who may know? 

Leonor. Is there another misfortune in store for me? 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 33 

Loudon. It seems you are expecting another. 

Leonor. Speak, s r, what else you know. I would like to be in- 
formed of it. Answer me; I beg you! I am so excited; I scarcely 
know what I am saying or doing. 

Loudon. T know of nothing positive, but our fortune is very 
fickle indeed. 

Leonor. I rejoice it is nothing 

Loudon. And fickle is our whole life. 

L'.onor. I thought you were the bearer of good tidings. 

Loudon. So I am, madame. 

Leonor. I doubt not your veracity, but 

Loudon. What causes you, madame, to let your thoughts take 
such a wayward course? 

Leonor. Because marriage is too serious a matter; we must reflect 
what such a momentous step will lead to. It may be a chain which 
we will have to drag along through this weary life; and it might be 
anything else but the happiness you speak of. 

Loudon. You are in distress, my lady: you reasofi under a 
shadow of gloom. 1 have pity on you; I pity you from the bottom 
of my soul. 

Leonor. You are kind and generous, sir. I could almost fall on 
my knees to thank you; for the spirit that moves you is that of a 
friend, notof alover. It is sympathy, it is your kindness, not to see me 
suffer. It is that love which kind hearts have for the distressed and 
unfortunate. The impulse is too sudden, and the love lovers pos- 
sess, needs time to grow and to develop. 

Loudon. The love that I possess for you, madame, is, for your 
worth, it is for yourself; it is the love to call you my own, to make 
you happy, and to be made happy by you. Give this my love 
whatever name you'wish, define it in any language you choose, it is 
love, it is true love, and never was there truer love, never more 
sincere and durable. 

Leonor. Do not cause me to act in haste; let us take time a 

month, a week, or so long to gather our thoughts, as I am not pre- 
pared now to give you my assent. And if I yield to your proposal, 
you have my pledge, and I have yours; and what of it, if someunfor- 
seen accident intervenes, which should render the consummation of 
our union impossible, then our words and pledges were false and 
deceiving, and our friendship, now so sincere, will turn into dis- 
like and contempt; or, in married life, if it should come so far, we 
are too apt to find fault with each other, as my customs and habits 
are those of another country and people. Let us thirfk, let us 
reflect; no, sir, it is not right, it is wrong, it is all wrong, to act in 
such haste. 

Loudon. Reflection is the child of doubt. A doubt lets golden 
moments pass by; a doubt keeps us in suspense, and makes 
a coward of the bravest; but grasping opportunities, alone, insures 
victory. Reflection is a demon; it whispers false tales in your ears; 
it annoys you, it makes you falter in your purpose. What hesita- 



34 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

tion is necessary V It takes but a moment to distinguish good from 
evil, a certainty from a doubt; or, do you want, by all means, to live 
ill misery and wretchedness? It must not, it cannot be; I tremble 
for you! 

_Leonor. I have m body but myself to consult, and I owe itto myself 
alone to be discreet. I crave your pardon — think my conduct is 
due to my wayward way. I want to give you my heart and hand 
willingly; therefor let us defer the solemn moment for an indefinitely 
short time only. 

.London. The ship on the high sea may be safe, when the weather 
is fair and the elements are quiet; but when a tempest arises, when 
the waves rise mountain-high, and the frail vessel is mercilessly 
tossed about like a child's toy, and is threatened to be swallowed 
up by the furious jaws of the sea; does not prudence suggest that 
a strong arm be at its helm to save and preserve it? You, dear 
lady, look at the misfortune around you, they may, perhaps, increase 
and increase. You cannot cope with the stormy elements of the 
world. It is impossible, the mere attempt is madness. Oh, may 
heaven save and protect you! 

Leonor. You have touched the true vein of my situation. 

Loudon. But Providence, as it were, has sent me to be a kind 
messenger to you, and to point out to you where the harbor of 
safety lies. You wish to reflect, madame; yes, do so, it is the kind 
of reflection you must need. Yes, reflect, do so, but I beg you to 
reflect well, at this moment, and on this very spot. 

Leonor. I feel like I am lost and abandoned. I see in my mind 
the billows rise mountain-high, and yours maybe a guardian voice; 
but I am undecided and unresolved. Forgive me, heaven knows 
I do not wish to hurt your feelings. 

Loudon. I perceive all; you are intimidated, my lady; it is 
caused by the pressure of your misfortunes. You said that you do 
not wish to hurt my feelings; it follows, therefore, that whatever 
we cannot injure must possess our veneration and love. Have I 
expressed the true word that I possess your love? I hope I did. 

Leonor. I yield — and give you my heart and hand. 

Loudon. Well spoken; all that appeared ruffled on the surface 
will soon wear off" and become bright and inviting; and I predict 
that a life of undescribable bliss will spread itself out before us. 

Leonor. May heaven grant that your words will become true. 

Loudon. With decision have I won the fairest lady in the land; 
and with decision, I propose that we unite in holy wedlock; and 
that before to-morrow's setting of the sun, we will be husband and 
wife, one and inseperable! [JEkceunt. 

[end act II.] 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 35 

ACT III. 

SCENE 1. — A Lawn near the Plantation of Prescott. 
Prescott and Inez; afterwards Mrs. Loudon and Tom. 

Prescott. I was astounded when I heard of the marriao-e of Mr. 
and Mrs. Loudon. There was no courtship and no visiting; they 
were never seen together in society circles; and even now I can- 
not comprehend that such an event took place. 

Inez. It may be strange, but it is true. 

Prescott. Methinks it must have been a marriage brouglit on h^r 
the pressure of surrounding circumstances; and 1 presume that 
you, madame, as her trusted friend, are acquainted with the details. 

Inez. All I know, is, that Mr. Loudon, having heard of her mis- 
fortune, improved his opportunities, proposed and was accepted, 
and very soon thereafter the marriage rites 'were performed. 

Prescott. I met her yesterday in passing; and I noticed distinctly 
that she was much depressed. 

Itiez. It is on account of the unfortunate news we received from 
home; I know that she still grieves about it. 

Prescott. I entertain some doubts. 

Inez. What else could it be? 

Prescott. The real grounds may be surmised. 

Inez. I, too, noticed her to have been cross to our domestics, and 
several times she has not been very friendly to me. I called her atten- 
tion to it by asking whether she was indisposed, but she evaded mv 
question and apologized. 

Prescott. Love ought to overcome all such obstacles. 

Inez. It is generally so. 

Prescott. But the obstacle here is — shall I pronounce the word? 

Inez. You may, sir. 

Prescott. It is want of love. 

Inez. It is beyond what I know. 

Pre'^cott. Mr. Loudon has passed the age of youth and romance, 
while his lady is a child of the world; he loves the solitude and 
spends his time in philosophical contemplations, while she is the 
extreme contrast. 

Inez. Withal that, Mr. Loudon is a gentleman, and they will 
soon accustom themselves to each other's ways. 

Prescott. Is she dissatisfied with her surroundings? 

Inez. Mr. Loudon wants to go traveling, but she is not pleased 
with the idea; he, too, thinks that her sorrow comes from her mis- 
fortune, and, therefore, lets her alone. 

Prescott. She is a character that wants to be studied. 

Inez. She is quite often a mystery to me. 

Prescott. I see the lady is making her promenade and is comings 
in our direction. 

Inez. It is so; she will be here almost instantly. 

/VescoW.. I propose we walk on. 



36 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

Inez. She prefers to be alone, anyhow. 
Prescott. I would like to have a conversation with her. 
Inez. And I must see her on matters of very great importance 
myself. {Exeunt. 

Enter Mbs. Loudon. 

Mrs. Loudon. Those scenes of romance, where are they ? They 
have vanished from my eyes. This is a desert, where the tropical 
sun burns but the fibres of the cotton plant. This is a land fit for 
negroes and alligators to inhabit. Swamps, too, are here, whose 
poisonous vapors make our blood congeal in the night, giving the 
crushing hieat of the sun the task to thin it in the daytime, thus bring- 
ing on a deadly contest in our bodily system. But worst of all, I 
am mismated and mismatched to a man whom I abhor. His slow 
and pedantic nature, his sickly sympathy, his dreaming contem- 
plations, the scientific nonsense he utters, are enough to arouse in 
me all the spirits of demons. He knew of my despairing condi- 
tion, and that I was like a trembling elk hunted down, and sur- 
rounded, on all sides, by enemies. With but a few cajoling words 
he could have set my fears aside; but he came cunningly and sly; 
he measured every step he took; he put me to fears; he overawed 
me with threats; he subjected me to the most excruciating anguish 
— to entrap me. A most foul and treacherous act it was! Oh, 
what a wretch, what a coward, to make use of such detestable 
means! And what a step, nay, what a fall for me! Accursed wed- 
lock whos j burden makes me old and decrepid before my time; 
whose chains drag me down into the grave! I call on heaven, I 
call on Providence to free me; but Providence is silent, is mute; 
it answers nothing; the echo is dying within ray bosom. Whocomesto 
disturb me in my thoughts? It is Inez; I must keep secrets for 
myself. 

Enter Inez. 

Come near, Inez, you frightened me a little; do not keep your- 
self so strange; my being married ought not to mar our friendship. 

Inez. A most beautiful day it is. 

Mrs. Loudon. The same luminaries are in our country; sun, moon 
and stars; they also give there light and heat. 

Inez. Creation is most wonderful. 

Mrs. Loudon. But the atmosphere is so different there from what 
it is here. 

Inez. I, too, find it so. 

Mrs. Loudon. Blt^ssed be our beautiful land. I have now a 
greater desire to live and be there than ever before; and you, Inez, 
do you not think much of home? 

Inez. I do, Leonor; and very soon my longed-for wishes will be 
fulfilled, as I have learned that a temporary armistice between the 
belligerent parties has been agreed upon; that the former govern- 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 37 

ment will remain in power, and that very soon lasting peace will be 
concluded. 

3frs. Loudon. Your departure will be a terrible blow for me. 

Inez. It will be sad, very sad, for me to leave you; especially 
when I consider how warm our friendship is, and how pleasant and 
agreeable our companionship has been. 

Mrs. Loudon. No, Inez, you cannot go, you must not go! I know 
not what will become of me, when you will have left me here. 
Stay, I will give you everything within my power. Ask me to 
make any sacrifice, to induce you to remain with me, and it shall be 
done. Do remain, Inez; do not leave me to myself. 

Liez. If you only try to make your life happy, my departure will 
affect you but little. You will soon learn to accustom yourself with 
the surroundings, and with those that are dearest to you. 
You will soon learn to love this country and people; and if love 
for our country is so great with you, its remembrance will always 
cling to you; it will be your constant companion, wherever you go 
or move, should it be to the remotest corners of the earth. 

Mrs. Loudon. These recollections will be my death. The very 
atmosphere I inhale here is slow poison. Who comes now? It is 
Uncle Tom; you have something for me, Uncle Tom; it is a letter. 

Bnter Tom. 

Tom. De Lor' bless de ladies. Massa gib me dis heah letter to 
mistress; he is readin' letters an' newspapers; he is a readin' now. 

{Hands up the letter.) 

Mrs. Loudon, This is my address; let's see; it is sent and 
signed — (^Opens the letter) — Pascal; {Reads). "Dear Madame! I 
have glorious news for you. I received information that the bank, 
wherein you had your moneys on deposit, will resume payment, 
and that creditors will have to lose but a small part on their claims, 
or most probably receive payment in full. I am further informed, 
that your buildings, which were reported to have been destroyed 
by fire, were but slightly damaged, and that the government will 
make full reparation, I am furthermore advised that an armistice 
has been agreed upon, and that the belief prevails that very 
soon peace would be concluded. My sincerest congratulations." 

Tom. No answer, mam; dat b'longs to my business. 

Mrs. Loudon. You may go. Uncle Tom. 

Tom. Good-bye, ladies, good-bye; de Lor' bless yer? 

[Exit Tom. 

Mrs. Loudon. Most foul imposition that has been practiced on 
me! Most shamefully have I been deceived! "What, remain here 
in this desert, and pass my life in this accursed misery! Never, 
Inez! I confide in you, I no longer will keep it secret, I shall go 
with you! And I call on heaven to be my witness, that I will and 
must break the fetters that keep me chained to this spot of wretch- 
edness. 



3« LOVE INTRIGUES. 

Inez. What! What are you thinking and speaking, Leonor? 
If I had not heard you with my own ears, or seen you utter these 
words with my own eyes, I would not have believed it 

Mrs. Loudon. Has he, who calls himself my husband, not commit- 
ted a great crime on me ? He persuaded me, he put me to fears, to 
torment, to anguish, nay, he forced me to marry him ; was that 
just ? 

Inez. Will you go to South America without your husband ? 
The news will spread far and near that you were married in the 
United States, that you have deserted your husband. You had 
pledged yourself to him before you consulted me, and considering 
these great misfortunes at that time, I could not dissuade you from 
your purpose. And now as you are about to commit a most fearful 
act, I, as your friend, your most trusted friend, must step between, 
and exhort you to beware, as evil will follow and tend to your 
ruin. 

Mrs. Loudon. For heaven's sake, speak no further, Inez ! Let no 
person ever know that I have spoken thus. I did not mean what I 
said. Forgive ; I was carried away with anger. No, I will never 
commit such an act. It is cowardly to desert the husband, and 
below my dignity. Say nothing, dearest, and mention it to me no 
more. I ask your forgiveness. I pray you speak to me, inform 
me, instruct me what to do and I shall be most obedient to you. 

Inez. In this manner I love to hear you speak. 

Mrs. Loudon. It was not I who spoke thus ; it was my southern 
temperament ; it was my wayward way. You must overlook it, 
as you have overlooked so many of my faults, 

Inez. And I ask you to excuse me for having scolded you, but 
when I do scold, it is always for your good. 

Mrs. Loudon. You always have been so kind to me, and now I 
must ask of you another favor ; of course I cannot object to your 
leavingme, but you must promise not to leave me so soon; and must 
prolong your stay with me as much as you can ; this favor you will 
not, you cannot refuse me. 

Inez. I will remain with you till you are perfectly contented with 
yourself and till you are reconciled with everything around you. 

Mrs. Loudon. I promise you all. 

Inez. Then my departing will be more agreeable to us ; and I 
shall take the happy thought with me of having left my Leonor in 
happiness and contentment. 

Mrs. Loudon. No more mention of what has passed between us ; 
let us turn our attention to something else, and let me suggest 
that you immediately go to the city to find out more of affairs at 
home. Mr. Pascal, no doubt, can give you more particulars ; and 
be kind enough to tell him that I send my sincerest thanks. 

Inez. This is a very pleasant mission for me. I will likewise 
make inquiries when ships will depart. But I must repeat again, 
do not excite yourself, and fill not your mind with such eccentric 
things, else you may drive me from you, before you know it. 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 39 

Adieu, then, Leonor, I will go to the city immediately and bring 
you good and cheering news. [£xit. 

Mrs. Loudon. Here I am again, in my solitude, and the same 
despondent sentiments and feelings come over me. Imp )ssible to 
drive them away! Oh, misery, oh, fate, I am humbled, I am crushed! 
I was wronged, I was robbed of the holiest, of my love, and thus 
am I deprived of my happiness; of my existence! I, who reigned 
supreme in society, who commanded, must now blindly obey the 
man who deceived me, and whom I detest. I cannot ! Impossible! 
I must not endure it! But I am tied, 1 am weak and must lock up 
all grief within myself. Is there, perhaps, power in prayer? Then 
I turn to ye, oh gods, be ye christian or pagan. I call on ye to inspire 
and to lead me on. I call on the spirits of demon to give me wis- 
dom and strength; I shall worship on your shrine, entirely and in- 
cessantly: — Who comes now to disturb me in my pleasant revelry? 
Away faithful friends; at some other time I shall converse with 
you again. 

Enter Pbescott. 

Prescott. I bid you a happy good day, madame; I recognized you 
from the distance and took the lib 'rty of walking up to you. 

Mrs. Loudon. Good day sir; very pleasant to be out in the air. 

Prescott. I have not been here of late; however, this site of the 
lake has always been my favorite resort. 

Mrs. Loudon. I find it very attractive here. 

Prescott. By the way, madame, are you getting used to our 
country life? 

Mrs. Loudon. Sometimes I am pleased and at other times I find 
myself lonely. 

Prescott. There is a certain routine necessary which one has to 
undergo in order to become accustomed to it. 

Mrs. Loudon. I have heard of many things in my life, but never 
of such a routine. 

Prescott, At first the task is a little difficult, but very soon it is 
overcome. 

Mrs. Loudon. I would thank you if you were to make me famil- 
iar with it. 

Prescott. The first step is, that you divest yourself of all acquired 
city habits; you must not give thought to the great noise and 
bustle; you must not recall to your mind its thriving activity and 
the elegance of fashionable society. Reduce all such and similar 
-thoughts into compact ideas and press them together in the nar- 
rowest space of your mind; then concentrate all other thoughts, 
channel-like to rural life, and you will surely succeed. 

Mrs. Loudon. I believe, sir, you are chiding me. 

Prescott. Here are my reasons. If you listen to the thunder of 
the storm, you feel not inclined to give ear to the whispering tones 
of. the Aeolian harp; or, should you fix your attention on huge 



40 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

mountains or on the rapid current of mighty rivers, you are not 
apt to admire the beautiful violet. 

Mrs. Loudon. There is much philosophy in your reasoning. 

Prescott. And, besides, philosophy, does it not compare with 
the rules of practical life? 

Mrs. Loudon. I cannot deny it, sir. 

Prescott. The recollections of a city cannot soon be forgotten: 
those great thoroughfares; that centre where the world meets to see 
and to be seen. It is like a sun around which the smaller planets 
move. There you have wit, intelligence, genius, which are the 
moving spirits of the world; then there is art, beauty, refinement 
and romance; there are all shades and casts of men, from the low- 
est to the highest; there is evolution all the time, each da^' bring- 
ing forth new ideas, new life, and with that a new world. 

Mrs. Loudon. A very faithful delineation! 

Prescott. And, in this rural world, there is everlasting repeti- 
tion; the sun rises and sets; we have light throughout the day and 
darkness in the night; so it has been and so it will be. But in the 
city, man creates night into day, and that more brilliant and lumi- 
nous than the heavenly planets themselves can do; and in this cre- 
ation of art, life and association possess the greatest enchantmsnt. 
And have you not found it so in your experience? 

Mrs. Loudon. You cause me to be sad. 

Prescott. And where you, madame, reigned like a queen, and all 
that was at your feet. 

Mrs. Loudon. I was betrayed! — For heavens ! what have I said? 
It escaped my lips; my imagination carried me away; it is not so, 
sir; you forced it out of me. I am contented; I have told you a 
falsehood! 

Prescott. I am not your enemy. 

Mrs. Loudon. Be gone, sir, and approach me no more. Who 
asked you to come here? You have drawn a confession out of me 
by subtlety and cunning, and, if you possess only an atom of man- 
liness, you will not make wrong use of it. \Exit. 

Prescott. Ah! you may feign as much as you want; you may re- 
sort to as much hypocrisy as you choose, you no longer can deceive 
me. I have detected her; betrayd, betrayed she was; so she said; 
they are her words, not mine. Betrayed! this is the word. I now 
know that she hates and detests her husband, and that she thirsts 
for liberty, but has no plans to reach it; for that she is morose. And 
a bird will never forget that once it was free. Yes, caught you are, 
and your cage is burglar-proof; you cannot escape. This is my re- 
venge for having fought the duel, [^Exit. 

Enter Mks. Loudon. 

Mrs. Loudon. He is gone; he made me acknowledge my secret; 
I am no longer master over it; I am in his power. He is the man 
who fought the duel; who brought me in this condition, and now — 
what! what do I see? his intent is to crush me under his heel. I see 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 41 

it all now. Oh, my head ! my senses! Where am I ? Never shall 
you succeed in your designs! Never will you hurl me in the dust ! 
It is I who will turn the knife; it is I who will make use of your 
own weapons, love, jealousy, blind jealousy, so that you will con- 
sume yourselves in your own fire. Th s is the antidote, this is the 
true herb which at last I have found; but no moie friends of con- 
fidence to guide and mislead me. All hail then to the spirits (if 
revenge. All thanks to you, sweet spirits, who have at last heard 
and accepted my prayers; and hail to the end of thraldom, whose 
approach I salute like the dawn of the new rising sun. \^Exit. 



SCENE II. — A Latoii near the Plantation. 
Enter Charles and Clara. 

Chas. I have overcome the obstacle of my father, whose opposi- 
tion was principally leased on the contrast be<^ween us, as regards 
wealth and social standing; hovvever, he is becoming reconciled, 
thinking as he does, that matrimony ought to be based on love or 
mutual liking, alone; that this is the true course and the other the 
irregular one; and trusts to time and wants to see me happy. 

Clara. I rejoice that you are reconciled with your side. 

Chas. As regards yourself, dearest, I suggest, as everything in 
your family goes its wanted course, that you confer Avith )our 
father, or rather, parents, on this matter; of course in your own way 
and manner. 

Clara. It is a delicate matter for me to approach him; besides, I 
have reasons to believe that he will speak to me on something 
similar. I saw him recently engaged in conversation with Mr. 
Edmonds' father, and almost immediately after that he intimated 
to me that he wanted to speak to me on a very important subject, 
and this is about the time he wants to see me. 

Chas, Is your father aware of our intimacy or love? 

Clara. It is highly probable, for I have refused Mr. Edmonds' 
offer; and through that it might have leaked out. 

Chas. I, too, believe that the secret is no longer our own, for on 
meeting Mr. Edmonds recently, he seemed to bear a deep grudge 
against me. 

Clara. The question is about to culminate in a termina- 
tion. Let us cut short our meeting, to be continued in the near 
future, as duty prompts me to see my father. 

Chas. Go then and be of good cheer ! 

Clara. And be you likewise ! [Mneunt. 



42 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

SCENE IIJ. A room in the mansion of Loudon. 
Enter Loudon, Mrs. Loudon, and afterward Claea-, 

Loudon. Mr. Edmonds says Clara refused him several times. 
The old Mr. Edmonds, the father, a very clever gentleman ap- 
proached me, too, on the same subject, knowing, as he does, luy 
wish and desire in the self-same direction. Taking all in all, it 
is best, I think, we take the matter up at once and bring it to a so- 
lution. 

3Irs. Loudon. I will do my utmost to see her happy and con- 
tented. 

Loudoi. For that reason, it is my desire that you be present at 
this our meeting; it likewise adds greater importance to the occa- 
sion; then, it being a family affair, it is by all means proper. 
Here comes our daughter now; glad that you are here Clara. 

Miter Clara. 

Clara. Good day, parents, I am very happy to see you. 
Loudon. Come near to us, ("lara. It is just as I predicted; every 
kind of ceremony will you place to true and lasting cordiality, and I 
am very glad that you and mother are becoming so attached to 
each other. 

Mrs. Loudon. I owe an apology to Clara. I have lately been 
distuibed in my mind, which could not have escaped unnoticed;, 
but we. Our sex, are best familiar with our eccentricities, and L 
trust, that Clara will not reproach me for not having been attentive 
enough to her. 

Clara. I must protest against your remarks, dear mother, as I 
saw nothing in your conduct to find fault with; on the contrary, I 
had censured myself for not being more attentive towards you. 

Loudon. If you vie with each other to be kind and friendly,, 
there needs nothing more be said; we will therefore proceed at 
once to a matter which concerns you, and you only, our child.. 
Clara. I am giving you all attention. 

Loudon. Of course, we mean your welfare and happiness, for we 
have nothing else at heart but that. 

Clara. The past, dear father, fully attests your present attitude.. 
Loudon. There is nothing under the sun which we consider too 
good or loo dear for you; and [ will add, that, until lately you had 
but a father, you have now a mother who, too, loves you with all 
devotion and aifection. 
3Irs. Loudon. You re-echo my sentiments, Mr. Loudon. 
Loudon. We want to be brief, our child; we have selected for 
you your future husband; he is a gentleman, whose character is 
model-like, and whose standing ranks rery high in this community. 
We mean Mr. Edmonds. You have known each other from child- 
hood; you inhaled the same air and are well known to everybody 
in your midst. His family belongs to the most respected in the 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 43 

commimily, and, I may add, his ancestors, on the mother's side, 
have served our country with glory and distinction, and we doubt 
not that you are well pleased and thank us for our choice. 

Mrs. Loudon. I will offer my congratulations as soon as the as- 
senting answer is given, which, surely, will follow my words. 

Clara. I have never, in any mode or manner, wilfully disobeyed 
my father, or acted contrary to his will or wishes; and even now 
would I so cheerfully accept what you, dear parents, offer, for I 
know full well how kindly and sincerely it is meant, were it not be- 
yond my power or will. 

Loudon. Beyond your power and will? 

Clara. I beg a thousand times your pardon if I have given 
offence. 

Loudon. Do my senses deceive me? 

Clara. As you desire me to speak, and with all deference to you, 
dear parents, I will say that I shall not wed Mr. Edmonds, as I 
have no love for him; and if that gentleman were possessed of 
more delicacy of manners, he would not act thus, in almost forcing 
me to an act, which time and again, I have told him, I would never 
oonsent to enter into. 

Loudon. I protest against such utterances; because we have 
given Mr. Edmonds more or less encouragement; besides he is a 
ti'ue gentleman; he has not overstepped the bounds of good breed- 
ing; and I am sure, with all the faults he may possess, he has always 
treated you with courtesy and respect. 

Clara. I retract my remarks; I acknowledge my indiscretion in' 
having spoken thus in the gentleman's absence. 

Loudon. I proceed a step further: the rumor goes through the 
neighborhood, it is already in everybody's mouth (at least so I un- 
derstood it) that you had given your heart and haiid to the black- 
smith's son; and I say this, that if a person were to approach me 
or you with such an intimation, surely I or you, would have just 
cause to look upon it as an insult. 

Clara. I acknowledge that I have given him my heart and hand; 
and in justice to him as well as to myself, I beg to say that he is a 
gentleman of honor. 

Loudon (to Mrs. Loudon). Have you heard thi?? If so, please 
answer for me; I believe I misunderstood our young lady. 

Mrs. Loudon. I am not sufficiently acquainted with the customs 
of this country, and least of all, with courtship and marrying. Not 
alone that, customs are so diversified: — every city, every village, 
every hamlet, however small in numbers, has its own peculiar rules 
and customs of etiquette, which persons grow up with and will 
adhere to. But should I speak, I must say that position in society, 
is always to be preferred; a certainty' better than an uncertainty, 
and a cavalier more acceptible than a mechanic. Of course, dear- 
est I will not lecture you. I only said this in a very friendly man- 
ner; and my only desire is, to see you happy and contented. 

Clara. Thanks, mother: I know not whether a correction will 



44 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

avail anything; but for truth's sake, I will say that the gentleman 
is not a mechanic; and, were he — 

Loudon. This is becoming unbearable! 

Mrs. Loudon. (To Mr. Loudon.) You must moderate yourself, 
by all means, or I am obliged to take part against you. 

Loudon. I believe the young man studied jurisprudence, but has 
no position in the world, nor in society, and perhaps never will 
have. The father is a blacksmith, and I take him to be a good 
blacksmith. Nobody knows who he is, or where he comes from, 
and nobody would care about it. I remember when he came to 
this region; it was several years ago; but cannot tell whether he 
bought the piece of ground he is living on, or whether some char- 
itable person made him a present of it. And this is the class of 
people, our young lady is taken in with. 

Mrs. Loudon. This, I believe, is Clara's first love. She soon will 
meet another beau and give to the new one her attention. I know 
it is the practice with young ladies to have several; to change old 
for new ones, and keep some in reserve, 

Clara. I have no words of complaint or reproach. 

Loudon. I pardon your indiscretion, which is owing to your young 
years and inexperience. Listen, my child, society has its rules and 
laws, and is as old as the world itself. Men will separate and as- 
sociate with each other, according to taste, choice and cast. It is 
a right, a law, unchangeable, which we find in all creation, be it 
animal, plant or mineral. As regards ourselves, we esteem honor, 
virtue and worth, and do not hurt the feelings of others; fools do 
that. The world is composed of many shades of persons; this 
should be so, and let each adhere to its own kind and make the 
best of it. 

Clara. Then our better nature must be subservient to the dic- 
tates of society. 

Loudon. Your mind is too idealistic, my child; you lack the 
knowledge and experience of the world. Society dictates and 
ever will; but romance floats in the air. With eagle's wings 
it flies into 'the invisible heights of the heavens and then, then 
turns into^nothing. I pray you, Clara, be honest to yourself. 
Your feelings overpower you. I beg you, lay all your ideas aside, 
they tend to nothing; and leave your welfare in our hands. 

Mrs. Loudon. The question has been rather philosophically 
treated, and I propose that we let it rest here, to take it up 
again in the Hear future, when we will all be in a better humor; 
1 hen, this putting ofl", will give Clara the opportunity to consider 
the matter in the light we view it. 

Loudon. I very much admire your tact and foresight, Mrs. 
Loudon. Clara has always been a good child and I have no doubt 
she will come to the better conclusion and let our wishes prevail. 

{Exeunt Loudon and Mks. Loudon.) 

Clara. Such expressions cut and wound deep, deep! Such 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 45 

vain-gloriousness is shocking; which ignores the holiest; which 
makes truth hide its head in shame, and causes hypocricy and con- 
ceit to triumph. Nay, I will never turn faithless to my lover. I 
would shrink back with horror from my own shadow, as he is true 
to himself as well as to me. [MciC. 



SCENE IV. — In the same Room. 
Miter Mrs. Loudon and Edmonds. 

3frs. Loudon. Mr. Loudon and myself have just had a conversa- 
tion on the same subject with Miss Clara; and our meeting was 
quite a spirited one. 

Edmonds. A spirited one? that bodes no good. 

Mrs. Loudon. That wants to be seen. 

Edmonds. Is the young lady still obstinate? 

3frs. Loudon. Very obstinate; she has a powerful will. 

Edmonds. May I address myself to you, madame. 

3frs. Loudon. I have taken your part already. 

Edtnonds. I mean by way of advice. I have been informed that 
you possess great knowledge of the world; and you being so near 
related to the young lady, I should beg you to give me some sug- 
gestions. 

Mrs. Loudon. To gain the young lady's affection and love, I pre- 
sume. 

Edmonds. First, I should like to have her good will. 

Mrs. Loudon. You are very ingenious sir; you want to know of 
me, how young ladies are persuaded, how they are driven and 
wedged in. You are very acute ; you want me to give you my knowl- 
edge of it. I see you manage your side in a masterly manner; 
but let me ask you, must the young lady yield by all means to 
your importunities? But no — I should not ask you that; I want to 
know of you whether you are an able talker; this is the principal 
requisite. 

Edmonds. I have tried all my conversational powers and have 
most signally failed. 

Mrs. Loudon. Poor Clara, she is very brave, or obstinate, I should 
have said. 

Edmonds. She would never have cause to regret such a step. 

Mrs. LoudoJi By-the-by, who is the young man she is in love 
with? 1 have heard something of him but not sufficient to judge by. 

Edmonds. He is a young man who studied well at school; his 
father is a blacksmith by profession. Position in society, these 
people have none; and that is about all that is known of them. 

Mrs. Loudon. And the son of a blacksmith is your rival ? 

Edmonds. I feel ashamed to acknowledge it. 

Mrs. Loudon. Young ladies are powerless, they must yield; but 
a man is surely able to find means to accomplish his ends. Do I 
infer from your conversation thatjyou are]powerless ? 



46 LOyB IN.TJRIGUiBS. 

Edmonds^. It is for this reason alone I address myself to you. 

Mrs. Loudon. Mr. Loudon, perhaps, could better advise you than 
I; but let it be —you have come to me and I must say^ that if you 
are a man, you must fight your own battle. 

Edmonds. I have tried all and am at my wit's end. 

Mrs. Loudon. And you are a man, a gentleman, a cavalier, of 
course! A young lady may groan and weep; she may grieve her- 
self to death, but a man has his strength, his daring and courage. 
Of course, I suggest nothing; then there is nothing of that neces- 
sary; for everything comes natural with man; besides necessity 
will always suggest a remedy. 

Edmonds. Your words inspire me with the fondest hopes; they 
are soul-inspiring and full of wisdom. 

Mrs. Loudon. I have said nothing at all. I only said that with a 
man everything comes on naturally; they call it self-reJiance in 
common language. 

Edmonds. Be it so; I will hereafter rely on myself. 

Mrs. Loitdon. I knew that it would work with you in this man- 
ner. 

Edmonds. And if necessary, will resort to, everything that is ex- 
pedient to further my object. 

Mrs. Loudon. You are on the right track, sir; for that are you 
men, for that are you strong. 

Edmonds. I understand you fully, madame; hereafter I shall 
trust to myself, alone, as through that I will have your sanction and. 
good will; my sincerest thanks, ray lady! Adieu. [Exit: 

Mrs. Loudon. What step is he now going to take? "Besort to 
everything that is expedient" said he. I would never blame myself 
having suggested to him to take an extreme course, because I could 
not have spoken otherwise; and Clara, though she has ray sympa- 
thies, I cannot openly side with her, else I will bring on m« the 
anger of her father. This matter I must let take its own course, 
bring my own plans to maturity,, and devote all attention to my- 
self; here he comes — 

Enter Loudon. 

I have just had a spicy conversation with Mr. Edmonds. 

Lotidon. I saw him leave the house, in very great haste. He 
had of late a slow and measured gait, but to me he appeared like 
elasticity itself. Your conversation, I presume, must have cheered 
him up. 

MtS' Loudon. I encouraged him by telling him to be manly; not 
to give himself up to grief and to fight it out by self-reliance. 

Loudon. Well done; Clara will surely come to her senses, she 
has always been a very obedient child and I ascribe this reluct- 
ance to her eccentric ways. 

Mrs. Loudon. Clara is in this respect like all other young girls: 
as strongly as she at first adheres to a certain aim, so easily is she 



LOVE INTRIG'UES. *? 

led off again, but only by degrees. Just give her a little time and 
leave everything to me. 

Loudon. You possess my entire confidence; and, as we have 
partly straightened up Clara's atFairs, let us turn to your own. You 
remember, before we spoke to Clara, you intimated to me that yoAl 
wanted to make a communication to me; and this being a fit 
time, we will give it our immediate attention and bring it at once, 
tb a solution. 

Mrs. Loudon. You are very kind, dear husband. 

Loudon, Have you any wish? and, if it is in my power to comply 
with it,, be kind enough to let me know it; as I have only your hap- 
piness and contentment at heart. 

Mrs. Loudon, I beg pardon. Those ititimations I made, oh^ I 
should have said nothing at all. 

Loudon. Why not? 

Mrs. Loudon. They were whims of mine, 

Loudon, Ai'e you so timid as to fear to express yourself? Then 
you must not attach the blame to me; and if the matter is so un- 
important, we will speak no more of it. 

Mrs. Loudon. I wish I had said nothing at all. 

Loudon^ You arouse my curiosity. 

Mrs. Loudon. It is nothing. 

Loudon. Does it concern yourself, dearest? Undoubtedly it 
does, else you would not treat the matter in this manner. I noticed 
long ago that you were depressed in spirits. I thought it was on 
account of your misfortunes in South America, wherefore T asked 
you no questions, thinking that time would heal up all those 
wounds. But as you apply yourself to me so directly, I cannot 
afford to pass it over in silence. 

Mrs. Loudon. I scarcely know what to say. 

Loudon. I beg you dearest, state to me, what you desire. I do 
not want to hear you complain, or to see you wanting in anything. 

Mrs. Loudo7i. I fear it will aggravate you. 

Loudon. Aggravate me, when I may be of assistance to you? 
Is it not my bounden duty to see you happy? Be frank with me; 
state your wish to me, so that I may think, act, devise or do some- 
thing to dispel all your sorrows; and do not keep me in such 
suspense! 

Mrs. Loudon. I wish I had never mentioned anything. 

Loudon. Upon my honor (and not to be rude to you), for you 
know my feelings and sentiments towards you, 1 must insist upon 
knowing it. 

Mrs. Loudon. It weighs heavily upon my conscience. 

XoMfZow. It weighs heavily upon your conscience? Do I hear 
aright? Have you committed a wrong against the laws of the 
land? against society, against yourself, against me? Heaven for-- 
bid, I crave your pardon ; you have committed no wrong against any- 
body; it is my crime to speak thus. But I pray you, dearest, 
speak to me, for your troubles are my own, and since we are bound 



48 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

together by the holy vows of matrimony, besides it being my duty, 
it is my most fervent desire to protect you in all that belongs to 
human affairs. 

Mrs. Loudon. I am between two fires; for if I speak it would 
cause the greatest disturbance, and were I to remain silent, heaven 
forbid, it would prove my perfidy and faithlessness. 

Loiidon. Faithlessness! Perfidy! Is your honor at stake? I 
swear, by the heavens, that he who oversteps these bounds must 
suffer the penalty of death! 

Mrs. Loudon. I can no longer deny it. 

Loudon. What! Is such the truth? Give me name, the time, 
the place^ the details: Who is it, friend or foe, angel, devil or 
whatever form it may assume ? Tell me who it is that dares to 
enter upou the threshold of our sanctity, I grasp him by the throat, 
I will choke him till his breath will have gone out of him; I will 
tread upon him, till life is extinct, and crush his body to thousands 
of atoms. Ah, I thirst for his blood; I want revenge, and such re- 
venge as the crime deserves. 

Mrs. Loudon. I knew what my speaking would lead to; I knew 
how it would effect you; I knew that it would be like a two-edged 
sword, dangerous to grasp on either side. I tremble when I look 
you in the face; your eyes shoot fire; your veins swell up like 
chords; the blood rushes up to your head and your whole frame is 
shaking with fury and rage. Is this becomiug a gentleman? First, 
control yourself and be not led blindly and by the moment. 

Loudon. Can I be silent when a wrong — 

Mrs. Loudon. I swear to heaven that I will not speak another 
word, if you behave and act in this rude manner. 

Loudon. Forgive, forgive me! I ought to fall on my knees, to 
crave your pardon, for having forgotten myself. I ought to have 
known that your character was pure, that you are true to yourself 
and to me. Forgive me, that I permitted myself to be blinded. 
Your own voluntary speaking, alone, proves your constancy and 
faith. Oh, forgive, forgive! 'Tis true, I suffered myself to be car- 
ried away by the moment; but remember, it was for a sacred 
cause; it was my love which I cherish for you; it was the momen- 
tary outburst of outraged feelings; it was beyond my power and 
control; therefor, forgive, forgive me dearest! 

Mrs. Loudon. You are not responsible for your conduct; it is 
I, who am to be blamed, for having mentioned the matter. 

Loudon. It is true I made you speak against your will; no blame 
can rest with you; and I beg you now to proceed, dear wife. Tell 
me all, whatever you have to say, I will give you my whole atten- 
tion, and I give you my sacred pledge that I will not interrupt 
you. 

Mrs. Loudon. This is wisdom; this is foresight; and it is becom- 
ing you. And, now, I will unfold everything, and we will surely 
come to a thorough understanding. 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 49 

Loudon. I am overjoyed having satisfied you. 
3frs. Loudon. Listen well; and no more interruption; it is vour 
honor that is at stalce as well as mine; and lor this reason 
I could not, with good conscience, keep the matter longer within 
myself; because I would thereby commit a great wrong against 
you; and if by chance, or by any other direct or indirect means you 
were to find out any traces, it would deprive you of your quiet, or 
you would (because of my silence) accuse me of the wrong. 

Loudon. Never ! My faith in you lasts as long as a shadow of 
breath is within me. 

Mrs. Loudon. Understand then right ; almost every morning, 
since we were marrie 1, I have taken a stroll along-side the lake; 
while you were sitting on the veranda ensraofed, in readini>- vour 
letters and newspapers. 

Loudon. This is very true. 

Mrs. Loudon. I always walked towards the great curve, and 
there on the bench, 1 nave found, several times, written notes; they 
were in a gentleman's handwriting, but not signed. Tnese letters, 
or notes, contained declarations of love and all sorts of .«entimemtal 
outpourings, and were written in prose and sometimes in verse. 
I would read them, but let them lie there, thinking that some fan- 
tastic swain had placed them there for his lady love, and that was 
all the thought I ever gave to it. But listen well, what happened. 
The gentleman came soon himself, and — made me love declarations. 
I expostulated with him in the strongest terms, and thought this the 
end. Yesterday, hovvever,I went in the same direction and lo the same 
place, found another note lyingthere,and a few minutes thereafter the 
gentleman again appeared before me, making his usual hanangue 
of love. I then hastened immediately to my room, and while in 
the act of delivering the note to the flames, the thought flashed over 
my mind (for I most keenly felt that an outrage had been practiced 
upon me,) that it was the highest time to pluck the fruit, and as 
quick as the thought itself, I snatched the piece of paper from the 
burning flames and saved a small fragment of it. And this is what 
weighed so heavily uyon my conscience, and this alone is what 
induced me to bring it to your knowledge. 

Loudon. And were yon without assistance or protection ? 

Mrs. Loudon. He was very careful that no one be present. 

Loudon. But who is the gentleman ? who is the man capable of 
committing such a deed ? 

Mrs. Loudon.. The man of whom you would least suspect it, 
your friend, Mr. Prescott. 

Loudon. Mr. Prescott? Impo sible! It is almost preposterous 
to think of it! It is a mistake! Give me proof; give me posi- 
tive proof, so that I may realize his committ ng such an outiage 
on us. 

Mrs. Loudon. Here is the note, or so much of it as I Was able to 
save from the flames. It is badly scorched, though, perhaps, you 
may yet be able to make out a few letters, [hands him the note.^ 



60 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

Loud')}}.^ (Looks at it.) What a horrible deed ! 

3Ivs. Loudon. Do you want other proof? 

Loudon. What! an^^thiug else? 

3I)'S. Loudon. That duel he fought — 

Loudon. 'Tis so; this no hunger leaves the least doubt in ray 
mind. 

3frs. Loudon. Such are friends. The best cannot be trusted. It 
is tearful. It is a very bad sign of the times, when you are de- 
ceived in such a manner; when you cannot trust your best friend ; 
and it was because you considered him your nearest friend that I 
felt reluctant to accuse him of a wrong, knowing as I do how much 
it would grieve you. 

Loudon. How corrupt humanity is, to rob a ma i of his dearest and 
holiest! Who would have believed or thougfit it? Oh, i have 
faith in you only; you, ;.lone, are true to me; and if all this world is 
false, you will never deceive me. 

3Irs. Loudon T regret that it has given you so much pain. I 
trust you will not blame me for having given you the information. 
I kept it from your knowledge as long as I possibly could, 

Loudon. If you are only satisfied, that is all I care for. 

Mrs. Loudon. I p-opose to let the matter rest here, and think no 
more about it. 

Loudon. To that I will never agree. I am a man of [)eace, but 
shrink not back where my duty is, to shield and protect my dearest. 
I will meet the man face to face. Silence would be acquiescence 
aad forbearance, detestable cowardice. I am not possessed of that 
mean and grovelling s]:)irit, so as to keep this matter locked up 
within myself; he shall, and must answer for the wrong he has com- 
mitted on us. 

JL's. Loudon. By no means act the aggressor; but I suggest that 
you first convince yourself. I wish you to witness his behavior, 
and should it be in the same insulting manner, at a time when you 
are cool and collected (or it may be thai, he has repented by this 
time), then judge him and deal with him in the manner he deserves. 

IjoiuIou. This is by far the most prudent way. 

3Irs. Loudon. And listen further to my suggestion : To-morrow 
inorning I shall again walk along the banks of the lake, audit will 
likely happen that the gentleman will be there again and approach me 
in the manner told. You take your position behind the bushes and 
trees and listen well to our conversation, and when you have heard 
enough, step forth from your concealment, confront him face to 
face, eye to eye, then and there. Denial will be out of question, 
and you Avill have him fully in your power. But by no means take 
his life; 1 forbid you that, because my honor and good name are at 
stake, and because the gentleman had a difficulty about me before; 
but make him cower before you; force him to kneel at my 
leet; make him beg my forgiveness and yours, and cause him to 
tremble like an aspen leaf. This will be my revenge and your 
tjiuinph ! 



LOVE INTRIGUES. Si 

London. You are wiser than I. Lead on, I will follow. 

{Exeunt.) 
[exd act in.] 



ACT IV. 

A room in the mansion o/' Loudon. 

Enter Mrs. Loudon and Inez. 

Inez. I stayed longer in the city than I intended; because Mr. 
Pascal^ expected every hour, almost, to receive more detinite news 
from South America; but nothing came; and not wishing to keep 
you longer in suspense, I concluded to return, and infonn you of 
it; so, then, we must curb our impatience a little longer. 

Mrs. Loudon. What thinks Mr. Pascal, generall3" of the con- 
dition, heme? 

Liez. He says that it is altogether out of reason and good sense 
to embark for home at the present, and that I should not worry, 
but to wait; that the hour would soon be at hand when I could go 
there in safety; so you and I can remain together for a while. 

Mrs, Loudon. Now, I come to ask another favor of you. 

Liez. Nothing is too much for me to do, to please you. 

Mrs. Loudon. Mr. Loudon wants to purchase of Mr. Prescott a 
piece of land; the land is in our immediate vicinity, and is to be 
used specially for my pleasure and purposes. 

Liez. Your mind is always active. 

Mrs. Loudon. The weather is clear and beautiful, and I de- 
sire you to take our new team and drive over to Mr. Prescott's res- 
idence; tell him that I have sent you; that Mr. Loudon and mvself 
expect to meet him at the promenade, near the lake, at the usual 
hour to-morrow morning 

Inez. And will you not accompany me? 

3Irs. Loudon. I decline to do so at present; take one of our maids 
along, that vvill answer as well. 

Inez. A piece of land, for your pleasure? that looks like con- 
tenting yourself? but supposing, I do not find Mr. Prescott at home? 

3Irs. Loudon. I dislike all such apprehensions, as thinkino-, sup- 
posing, expecting; or, if I can, if I would, if I were; say you will 
find him, you will make him come, and you will idvariably succeed. 

Inez. Your same old impatience. 

Mrs. Loudon. Whenever doubtful words or phrases are used 
there is failure from the beginning. But by your will you can cre- 
ate wonders, you can make imp )bsible things possilde; nav, you 
can create a world for yourself. Thousands of people live a"nd do 
not know that they live; they lack confidence; they command no- 
thing and achieve nothing; the world drags these alono-. This is 
enough lecturing for the present; of course, I make the appli- 



52 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

cation to myself, not to you, dearest; and now go, deliver your 
message; you will surely find the gentleman at his residnence. 

Inez. You are a true child of the south, quick, fickle and impetu- 
ous; and having heard you speak so full of confidence, I am certain 
that 1 will meet the gentleman. \Exit, 

Mrs. Loudon. This meeting must never take place; I will feign 
sickness or invent another excuse. To my husband the scheme 
must appear natural, as I have informed him of it; to Prescott it is 
of a dubious character, which his adventurous spirit will easily take 
hold of. The plot is laid, and with glowing hopes shall I look to 
its coming development. 

{Exit. 



SCENE II. On an open ground., on the highway., in the neighbor- 
hood of the plantation of Loudon. 
^w^^gr Edmonds ano? Richard; afterwards Charles. 

Edmonds. Were he of our blood or kin, I would not complain, 
because we are all congenial fellows, and in love matters some one 
must get the best. We may fret for a while, but it does not last 
and is soon forgotton. But a defeat from a blacksmith, from such 
a low source, will be a disgrace on me as long as I live. 

Richard. It is almost in everybody's mouth that you are about to 
be left. 

Edmonds. Even children will point their fingers at me; so I fear, 
that anger and mortification will soon consume me. 

Richard. What shall I do with my young miss? she frets and 
spouts, when I merely mention the name of love, and is getting 
worse and worse. 

Edrnonds. Let my affair be straightened up first, as I set my 
greatest hope on the assistance of the parents; and then I will 
give you my help. 

Richard. I cannot see what gives this blacksmith's son such a 
big name: — listen friend, it amounts to this: AH his school-mates, 
and we all, study for just so much as is ntcessary for us to know; 
or we study for pastime, or to appear a little wise and accom- 
plished. At any rate we will not trouble ourselves too much about 
it. Now, then, everybody who studies or wants to study from 
morning till night, and half the night for years and years, is bound 
to know something in the end. There is nothing impossible about 
it. I can do it, you can do it, and everybody else can if they want 
to. And who, tell me, does hard study now-a-days? Only fellows 
who want to become school-masters; or those who are forced to 
make a living by it; but we, we are gentlemen, we have wealth to 
rely on, we have rich relations we can depend on; we can follow 
other occupations; we need not study ourselves to death; we take 
in as much as we need and that is all. 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 55 

Edmonds. He is a book-worm; and a book-worm is a fool, an 
idiot. Who wants to be a book-worm ? You or I? Never! Is it 
smartness that makes this young blacksmith? Not at all. It is 
the lazinesss and indiiFerence of his class-mates and of us all. 

Michard. Now you have it; it is our laziness and indifterence 
that makes him. He is coming; he is coming toward us; let us 
quit talking about him. 

Edmonds. We will let him pass and not notice him at all; let us 
make out like we were observing something. 

Richard. He will be here in a few moments. 

Edinorids. All the gall and venom I have swallowed on his ac- 
count, comes back upon me with such power and strength, that I 
could hurl it at him and wipe him out of existence. 

Enter Chakles. 

Chas. Fine day, gentlemen ! Standing here motionless and ap- 
parently engrossed in deep meditation, one is apt to think you are 
engaged in solving some difficult mathematical or scientific problem. 

Richard. Quite scieutific it is; we have been waiting for you to 
help us out. 

Ehnonds. Just a moment ago we discussed what influence the 
moon has on lovers when they meet. 

Chas. This makes several conditions necessary: lovers to love; 
the moon to be shining; and to shine when they meet. 

Richard. You are extremely smart, sir; you can solve almost 
any problem. 

Edmonds. Then we had a conversation on evolution, or revolu- 
tion, or whatever you call that thing. 

Chas. A very broad subject. 

Richard. I think you are well versed on evolution. You could 
give us some valuable information about that, judging from your 
great scholarship; you know. 

Chas. I have devoted some attention to it, but not enough to 
speak or to lecture on. 

Edmonds. Morals, I believe, you are good on. You ought to 
turn your attention in that direction; and I think you have the ma- 
terial in you to make a splendid parson. This is a capital idea. 
Then, you could get all the old women and old maids in the country 
to listen to you. They can help you to build up a reputation; they 
can help you to it; it is a dead certainty. How would that sound, 
Dick! ''Parson Thomas!" Ha, ha, ha! 

Richard. That's rich, "Parson Thomas;" that's rich. 

Chas. Such remarks are uncalled for. 

Richard. We talk what we please, sir. 

Edmonds. Who recognized you ? Who asked you to come here 
and mix yourself up with our private affairs? How dare you ? Are 
you our peer? No, sir, we do not stoop so low as to recognize you. 
We want to have nothing to do with you. You must go somewhere 
else! Go on, go on your way, sir! 



54 LOVE INTRIGUES, 

Chas. Have you lost your senses? 

Richard. What do you stand here for? We owe you no expla- 
nation, sir. 

Edmonds. His royal blood is boiling. 

Michard. His royal pride is getting ruffled. 

Edmonds. I believe he is getting ready to resent it. Ha ha ! 

Chas. T think this is all a joke, and I must say a very vulgar one. 

Hichard. It is getting richer every time. 

Edmonds. Go on, blacksmith ! Go on your way, or we will set 
you bottom up ! 

Chas. You miserable cowards 1 you idlers I you vagabonds ! Do 
you think that I am bound to bear your insults ? You blackguards, 
liars and scoundrels ! I dare you show your colors ! 

Edmonds. I will adjust the matter with you. You call us black- 
guards, liars and scoundrels. We are gentlemen, sir. This must 
be settled, and settled immediately. 

Chas. Get your weapons ready; make your own choice — guns, 
pistols, daggers, knives, or whatever else you wish. 

Edmonds. Knives 1 Knives let us have, if you want me to 
choose. Here they are, of equal length and strength. We 
brought them here for another purpose, but they are now like a 
God-send. 

Chas. Knives, then, we will have, and let us do our work quickly. 

Elmonds. And you, Dick, act as our second; and see that our 
fight is a fair one. 

Richard. Here are knives for two. Fair play throughout, and 
for all. Ready ! 

\ Swords or knives may he used, as propriety or custom may suggest.] 

Edmonds. (To Charles) Are you ready? 

Chas. I am. 

Richard. Proceed, gentlemen J 

[They fight. Edmonds receives atcound.] 

Edmonds. 1 am wounded. One moment, let me draw my 
breath. 

Chas. Let us stop this murder-practice; you have forced me to 
it against my will. 

Edmonds. Never ! I cannot live either way; and if I have to 
die, do your work well, or you will lose your own life. 

Richard. Whatever has a beginning must have an ending. 
Ready ! 

Edmonds, Ready. 

Chas. At your say so. 

[They fight. Elmonds receives a second wound.] 

Edmonds, I am wounded to the heart ! Air I want — the veins 
are cut — more air — I am dying ! 

[Staggers, falls and dies.] 

Chas. He is dead ! i stabbed him in the heart ! The deed is 



LOVE INTRIGUES. a5 

done ! Heaven knows I did not want to commit this deed of hor- 
ror ! I am innocent of the crime; the guilt and all blame rests 
on you and him. 

Jiichard. Get out of my sight, or I shall take my revenge on 
you. He was my friend, and the only true friend that I had. Out 
of my sight, or T will carve you to pieces! 

Chas. The truth is perverted. I am lost, I am lost! \Micit. 

Jiichard. Help, murder, help! My best friend is gone! Awake! 
open your eyes, your mouth; speak to me, friend, that I may help 
you; no, he does not speak, he is dead, he is lifeless and speech- 
less, he will never speak again. He is dead, he is gone, my best 
friend is gone! No more will his feet press the earth again. No 
more can I grasp your hand as of my living friend. Dead, dead you 
are, and all that was good and kind in you, is gone from me 
forever! Farewell, farewell, friend! I can speak no more, all my 
strength is giving way to my grief. 

Enter Officer No. 1. 

Officer N'o. 1. Some person must be in distress. I have heard 
cries of murder, and help. It is bound to be in this direction; I 
cannot be mistaken. 

Enter Officer No. 2. 

Officer No. 2. I am almost sure that this is the place the cry came 
from. 

Officer No. 1. Here is the man; he must have committed a crime. 

Officer No. 2, This is young Mr. Edmonds lying here; he is life- 
less," dead; he has been murdered. 

Officer No. 1. Terrible sight! The only son of his parents. 

Officer No. 2. A great calamity for them. 

Officer No. 1. Who has committed this crime ! Speak^ sir, and 
awake from your sleep; and tell us who committed this deed. 

Richard., (raising himself.) No guilt can be attached to me. I 
am innocent; 1 am as innocent as you are. I had nothing to do 
with it. I only saw it, and I will tell you all I know. Ob, my 
friend, my best friend is gone! 

Officer No. 1. We want no evasions. Answer? Yes or No; 
whether you had anything to do with it or not; and who the per- 
petrator was. 

Richard. It was young Thomas, the blacksmith's son. Mr. Ed- 
monds and I, were engaged in friendly conversation, when he 
came here and forced himself into our presence and company. He 
intermeddled with our conversation and used insulting language. 
My friend, who now lies here, murdered, could not constrain himself 
to bear the insult, and like a true gentleman, wanted to resent it; 
and this is the fruit of his manliness and bravery. 

Officer No. 2. It will shock the whole community. 

Richard. He is innocent, and there lies he murdered, weltering 



56 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

in his blood. There never lived a better soul; there never was a 
truer friend. 

Officer No. 3. We ought remain here no longer. 

Officer JVo. 1. Let us remove the body to a more convenient 
place, at once; or what is better, to his own home and family; and 
inform our citizens of the crime that has been committed, and let 
justice be meted out, so that evil-doers will be made to tremble 
before its behests and decrees. 

[JEJxeu?it; carrying offi the body. 



SCENE III. — A room in the maiision of Loudon. 
Enter Mrs. Loudon, Inez, afterwards Prescott. 

IntiZ. I met Mr. Prescott in person. 

Mrs. Loudon. And what was his reply ? 

Inez. He was surprised about this land matter, and thought there 
must be some mistake; then, after a while, as if having refreshed 
his memory, the gentleman said that "If Mrs. Loudon wants to see 
me to-morrow morning, I will be very glad to meet her." 

3Irs. Loudon. Have you told him that Mr. Loudon, likewise, 
wants to meet him ? 

Inez. Most assuredly. At first he could not understand the mat- 
ter; but on my leaving him, said, he would attend to it. 

Mrs. Loudon. I have been told of the project by Mr. Loudon 
himself, and I am not informed how much or how little Mr. Pres- 
cott knows of it. It is possible that I misunderstood Mr. Loudon; 
that hft said he intended making such a purchase, and, in my hasti- 
ness, I construed it for completing it. 

Inez. At any rate, let us hope that it will be to your satisfaction. 

Mrs. Loudon. And is it your actual intent to depart so soon? 

Inez. No sooner than official peace will have been proclaimed. 

Mrs. Loudon. May heaven grant it. 

Inez. Day and night have I wished for the golden opportunity 
to come; because I have dear friends and relatives at home, and 
my heart and mind are always with them. Think not ill of me, 
Leonor. 

Mrs. Loudon. I want to see you happy, my friend; go. 

Inez. And in this happiness I feel wretched to leave you here, 
you whom I so much love and have loved. I likewise love this 
country; I never knew how much I was attached to it till now; 
and most dearly do I love the friends, to whom you are related by 
the ties of matrimony. 

Mrs. Loudon. What do I experience? My head — my heart — it 
is nothing. 

Inez. What ails you, Leonor? 

Mrs. London. It is nothing — I see — what do I see? Nothing, it 
is gone. 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 57 

Inez. You are ill, 

Mrs. Loudon. Not so; be gone Inez. 

Inez. You want rest. 

Mrs. IiOudon. I feel indisposed; it is — tlirinigli tiie late excite- 
.'iient — leave me to m3selt--lwant to lie down; oo Inez, go; 1 will 
see you to-morrow — go (kisses Inez); go Inez, I will see you to- 
morrow [turns her face in the opposite direction). 

Inez, (aside) What strange beliavior ! It is sorrow, caused \i\ 
being 'breed to remain here. She caniioL (M>ntiul herself; 1 must 
leave her alone. [A'-'/V. 

Mrs. Ziondon. I felt a pang in my bivast; what was it V 1 know 
it not. It was something; it prevented me from breathing 1^ 
there anything or anybody near*? Have I taken frigiit ? It was ;i 
pain. Oh, it is the pang of sorrow and regret that I see slowly ap- 
proaching. Or, heaven, what have I done ? Oh, woe and misery, 
I am wedded to calamities ! I fear — 1 fear nothing! Nothing do 
I fear. I am Jiot panic-stricken. Oh, am I so weak that I sliail fall 
in despair for the deeds others have committed ? Never ! I I ave 
done nothing. I took up the weapon to make them suffer the 
penalty tliey have so justly merited. Who comes now ? 

Enter Prescott [hexstily). 

Prescoff. Do I find you here ? 

Mrs. Loudon. What prompts you to enter in this imi)ertincnt 
manner ? 

Prescott. Your message, the land matter. I want your c.xplaiia- 
tion. 

Mrs. Loudon. Are you a madman V 

Prexcott. Mr. Loudon came to me in a wild lage; he accused 
me of having written letters to you, of havuig offere<l you insulls; 
that I had fdjused his friendship, that I had violated his sanctity 
and home. I wanted to prove to him my innocence, but he was 
wild witli fury and anger; he would list(?n to no explanation, and 
called me a scoundrel and black villain. I begged him to listen, 
but his rage knew no bounds, and seeing that I had nothing to 
hope for, I told him thai I was armed. He then drew his weapon 
on me. but missed his aim, audi, in my sacred right of self-del'ence, 
accomplished on him what he failed to do on me — he is dead ! 

3Irs. Loudon. Dead ! And you conui over my threshold to tell 
me of the murder you committed ? 

Prescott. I charge you to be the immediate cause. I have writ- 
ten no love letters to you. I have offered you no insults. The 
land question was invented by you to entrap me; you hav(» mur- 
dered your husband, and the deed cries to heaven for revenge and 
retribution I 

3Irs. Loudon If you have murdered my husband, look to it your- 
self; but beware sir, to impugn my honor, or I will pluck out your 
eyes; I will bury my fingers in your face; I shall have your 
body carved out in pieces and thrown to the dogs. You have 



58 LOVE JNTRJCiUES. 

inurdei'ed my luishaiul? get out ui" my peseiicc imuKMliatcly, or 1 
will forget myself. 

Prescott. i have another tale to tell to the woi'Ul. 

Mi'S. Loadou. So have I; that duel — 

Prescott. I am vanquished. 

J//'.s. London. 1 will deal leniently with you: Tell the truth; at- 
tiibute the broil to a mutual misunderstanding- that arose in regai'il 
to a land question; say you acted in self defence, and ycni may be 
safe; but beware, sir. of brniging up my good name in this alfair, 
or 1 will crush you in the manner- youi" deed deserves. 

Prescott. You have won; but the avenging Nemesis — 

3Irs. Loudon, has struck — 

Prescott. And will reach you in the end I 
[knd act IV. I 



ACT V. 

On t/ic }ii<ihtf(iij nciif t/ie j>/(int<(ti(>n. 
KnUr Tno.MAS and Ci.aija. 

(Jliirii. Whither are you traveling sii' V I know that you have 
had a great misfortune of late; ])iay, tel Ime, whether I canbe of help 
to you V 

Tho>n<ii<. Young lady, 1 thnnk vovi; I need notliini>', nothing 
whatever. 

Clara. May I ask you where your journey leads'? 

Thoniaft. I am ijoini>' I know not mvself. [ wish it wer(> to mv 
grave. 

Clara. To your grave ! 

Thomas. My son, my only child, is gone. 

Clara. Where is your son V 

Thomas. I know not; heaven only knows. 

Clara. I mourn with you. 

Thomas. Bless you, my lady. 

Clara.. I^o you know where vour son is, and whether he is well? 

Thomas. I cannot answer whether he is alive or dead. 

Clara. If you know not where he is, would it not be better to 
ti-ust to his good fortune and to providence, and you remain here ? 

Thomas. I cannot remain; 1 must go. 

Clara. Are you strong enough to travel a great distance ? 

Thomas. [ will explain to you, my chi d. I am i:)roke)i down in 
spirit as well as in body. The sinews o\' my arms, at one time 
strong a« iron, mi'(» almost parali/ed, and will hardly assist me 
to e-Hrn my bread. My wife is in great distress, because our child 
is o-one. 1 have no rest; and I told hei' that I would go to the city 
that 1 might, perhaps.^ find him tiiere, should he be alive. 

Clar((. You seem to be cei-tain of Mieetiiio- him. 



\A)VK IXTHIGrKS. 59 

j[7ii>»i'.t.s. ] know uf nothing-, uiy lady. I wandef along- as the 
wind drives me. 1 know not whilJuu- I am diil'ting-. This road leads 
to the city, then it g-oes into the widr, wide wt)rld, and there is 
where 1 wdl meet my son. 

(J/ar<i. And do you expect to iind him there ? 

IViOiiias. Perhaps, my chikl; iK'rhaps some guardian angel will 
lead me to him. I jive in ho[)es: that is all; that is all. 

iJUii'K. 1 luue iost my father, hut seeing- you thus suffer, not- 
withstanding niy own grit^f, 1 still have sympathy left for you. 
You arc an honest man; you have led an upritj^ht life; and to see 
you m this condition, is enough to move a stone to pilv. 

T/'wumx. I bless you; and were Charles to know of this, \u\ 
would value it more than anything on earth. You have loved him; 
he w-as such a good chikl, and 1 know he was kind to you; he was 
good to everybody. Tiiere never lived a better boy. I feel now 
what he was to me. Do not weep, my child; I could love you as 
my own. Heaven will be good to you. Bless you; you will be 
happy yet. \ ou are young and strong; you will overcome 
your affliction. I must leave you; heaven will protect you; 
and if I should see my son, he shall know that 1 have met you. 

Clam, if you do meet him, tell liim that i sent him niv greet- 
ings of love. Tell him that I have not forgotten him; that I will 
keep him in sacred memory as long as 1 live. Tell him to have 
courage; tell him to be firm, to live and hope. And yourself, sir, 
be courageous, and may heaven grant you |)i-otection. 

[^Exit Thomas. 

Clara. Poor old man, whose life seems to be hanging on a sin- 
gle thread, it is the faint hope of seeing his only son. He goes 
along and knows not where. Oil pity, pity ! lie is childish; he 
will soon lose his mind, and the grave will be his mo^t welcome 
friend. And T, myself, live in hopes, in faith to see my love again, 
if not here, then in the world to come. \^E,i'lt. 



St.'KXHl 11. — A room ui. the niaiis!o)i o/"" l>oi don. 
Enter Mas. Loudon and Inez. 

Inez. ] do not mind being disturbed from my sleep when I can 
l)e of assistance to you. 

Mrs. L'judon. It is because I am not well. 

I/a.'?:. You are nervously excited. 

Jlrs. London. 1 have had such bad dreams. 

Inex. Dreams mean nothir)g. 

Mrs. Loudon. I always thought so myself, but now — 

Inez. What causes you to think now otherwise % 

Mrs. London. 1 know not, myself; it was a (-lr<!am, which makes 
my blood chill when I think of it. 

Ine:-:. Tell me what it was; I can, perhaps, explain it to you. 

Mrs. lynidon. They were nightmares. ! cannot ie[)eat allj I 



00 1X)VE INTRIGUES. 

saw blood, skeletons, open graves and tigures with ghastlv pierc- 
ing eyes, most horrible to look at. 

Inez. Be quiet; I will remain with you. 

3Irs. Loudon. Have you ever had bad dreams ? 

Lux. Dr ams depend on our state of health, and the mode of 
life we lead. Dreams are the fleeting shadows of passing events. 
Children dreatu of toys and chihlish doings; youth, of pleasures, 
such as dances, love scenes, weddings and the like; and persons 
more advanced in years, of things that are more firm and real. 

3Ii's. Loudon. That must be so. I remember that my dreams 
were pleasant, when my suiTOUndings were such. 

Iiie?:. Those late unfortunate scenes have so forcibly impressed 
themselves on your mind. There was the duel, then the calamities 
in South America, and those murders in our neighborhood. A)id 
as these events etfect you in the day, they come hack to you in the 
same manner at night, when you sleep, but in the form of dreams. 

J/ns'. Loudon. You speak so truthfully that I love to listen to 

Inez. And their degree of torce depends altogether on the condi- 
tion of our nervous system. 

3L'S. I^oudon. Have you seen (ylara of late, and how is she ? 

Inez. She grieves over the death of her father, and of the 
fate of her lover. 

Mrs. Loudon. You have told her that I cannot see her, and no 
one else, that I am too unwell ? 

Inez. I have, Leonoi', and she is satisfied. 

Mrs. Loudon. How long has Mr. Loudon been dead ? 

Inez. .lust eight days ago he was buried. 

Mrs. Loudoi. 1 was thinking it was I)ut yesterday. 

Imz. It is only after death that we find out what friends are; in 
real life we are too frivolous. 

Mrs. Loudon. Was J ever frivolous? 

Liez. We often say things which we do not mean. 1 know 
that you loved Mr. Loudon, more so than you know vourself. 

Mrfi. Loudon. Are you convinced of this ? 

Inez. I am quite certain. 

Mrs. Lmdon. What is the hour now ? 

Inez. It'is about midnight. 

Mrs. Loudon. Open the window, Inez, I want to take breath; 
thi atmosphere is very close; see if a storm approaches. 

Inez. The weather is perfectly clear. You are unwell. 

Mrs. Loudon. Do not say I am unwell; I am well, perfectly well. 
I^hate for jieople to be sick; then they languish on their beds, 
pine away, inch by inch, and die, and are laid in the 
dark coUl grave, where worms devour them; and thus, eveiything 
of them, what they were, what they possessed, is wiped out forever. 
Oh, it is horrible ! I shudder at the thought. I am not sick, I am 
well; I was never in Ijetter health in my life. » 

Inex. You are oniv restless. 



LOVE INTKIGUES. 01 

Mrs. Loudon. Yes, restless, I am; restless is the proper name; 
restless 1 vvatit to be; for I want to possess energy. I hate 
dull and lifeless people, they are good for nothing. I want to be 
active; I want to have something to do; one feels so much better 
by it; and what do you propose we shall do now to be active? 

Inez. How would you like to read for a while; or shall I read to 
you? 

Mrs. Loudon. This is an excellent idea; you will be kind enouo-h 
to lead and I will listen. 

Lnez. What shall I read? 

J//'.s\ Loudon. Whatever you think is interesting. 

Inez. Here is a book; it is a novel. 

3rrs. Loudon. A novel! Nothing of that! I wish to hear 
nothing of love affairs; for mercy's sake, read nothing of that to me! 

Inez. Do you like to listen to poetry? 

Mrs. Loudon. That kind of reading was always rather dull to me. 
Poetry is sentimentality. Poetry treats on matters as the}' do not 
exist. Men speak in poetry as affectedly as women, and women 
like children. It is a distortion throughout. I have always found 
my poetry in life real, in beauty, in society, in wit, in activity; 
then there is a kind of poetry in music, flowers, nature herself, 
which is the grandest of poetry, and needs not the panygeries of 
men; do you luiderstand nie? 

Inez. Then I propose that we take up something which has more 
substance; say history, it treats of facts as they occurred. 

3Irs. Loudon. History contains accounts of wars; these remind 
me of bloody battles, where hundreds of thousands of people are 
slain, which breaks hundreds of thousands of hearts. No, I cannot 
bear that; suggest something else. 

Inez. Well, then, a book on religion; the Bible, that will suit 
you better. 

3Irs. Loudo)i. This is the worst of all; it speaks of ghosts and 
about graves and the dead. Impossible, I cannot bear it; it will 
set me in a fearful state of excitement. Away with that book! I 
cannot listen to it; I dread it. 

Inez. You only imagine so. 

Mrs. Loudon. You are superstitious Inez; but I overlook your 
faults. 

Inez. We will not read at all; let us converse. 

3Irs. Loudon. Do you believe in conscience? 

Inez. Certainly, I do. 

Mrs. Loudo)i. Do you think, that a king or army commander 
have any conscience when they slaughter thousands and thousands 
of people; when they have destroyed blooming fields and peaceful 
homes? or has the soldier conscience when he murders the best 
man on earth, or when, on his onward march, on the field of battle, 
he treads upon his dying friend? 

Inez. This is a very corrupt world, and one often looses all faith. 

Mrs. Loudon. 1 want to tell you something? 



(3-> LOVE iNTKIGUES. 

Iiu::. Wliat is ii, Lcuiior':' 

Mrs. Loudon. I do not like to live in tliis country; I detest the 
climate and hate its people. 

Iney:. Of course we like our own country best; and we also pre- 
fer to live amongst our ovvn people. 

Mrs. Loudon. For this reason we want to leave soon, for our 
home, in South America; we will search there for a spot where we 
can live happily together; we will select a piece of ground, where 
a small river or a brook with pure crystal water flows through; then 
we want plenty of meadow; then sufficient space for flowers and 
shrubbery; we want nice and broad walks laid out. There we 
want to be together; be like children, play like children, and live 
like children. 

Inez. I shall do anything to make you happy. 

3L-S. Loudon. And we will take our ettects with us; we will 
leave nothing here; and we will live there like sisters; will we not? 

Lnez. My whole care is to see you satisfied. 

3frs. Loudon. My head is becoming heavy, and my eyes are 
growing weak. 

Lnez. You have a slight fever on you. 

Mrs. London. My whole body aches me; 1 am unable to remain 
up longer. 

Lnez. You have excited yourself too much with our conversation. 
You need rest, Leonor; lie down on your bed. 

Mrs. Loudon. Your advice is good; lead me on! \^E.t'eunt. 



SCENE III. Ln the sa-am2Js. 
Enter Thomas and Chaules. 

Ch<(S. We may take rest here. The bushes and trees hide us 
from being detected; also, the twilight protects us from being spied 
out. Now, dear father, you may speak to me. I presume you have 
recovered from your exhaustion; and first of all, let me know what 
motive has prompted you to come to me. 

Thomas. I could no longer rest at home. 

Chas. What a change has taken place witli you; and that in such 
a short space of time ! I see that my deed is written on your face, 
and that every furrow in it, speaks volumes. I ought to run away 
out of vour sight. Oh, I wish, that the instrument with which I 
shed human blood had pierced through my own body! You can no 
longer bless me; you ought not to come to me. But I beg of you, 
father, have mercy, I am a living curse to myself. 

Thomas. Charles, my son! This is not the time for complaining; 
this is the time for speaking. 

Chas. Speak, then; I will not fill your ears with lamentations. 
I will listen to you; but tell me first, how came you to be here? 

Thomas. At the place where you mot me, there is a stcjiio on 



]-()VE INTRIGUES. G3 

which 1 layed down to rest. I arose to take up m\' journey again 
and found you standing- before me. My purpose was to see you; 
I did not know whether you were dead or alive; I had no longer 
any rest in me; an inward impulse drove me on; I have seen you; 
I am satisfied, whatever the fate may be, that is in store for us. 

CJiUH. Your presence is like a God-send to me. 

Thomas. What is your intention of doing, my soul 

Chas. To remain here until the excitement in our neighborhood 
has cooled down; then 1 will give myself up to the authorities and 
await the sentence of the law. Oh, I could kill myself for having 
brought this calamity over yL,ur head, when I remember what you 
have done for me. 

Thomas. And how do you pass your time '? 

Chas. I tell you of my surroixndings, and you may judge for your- 
self. I find here malarious pools of stagnant water, poisonous 
weeds, and trees; the sky above, the earth beneath; sometimes I 
see a bird shooting through the air and watch its flight; then, there 
are frogs, wizards, water rats, and insects; all these, alter- 
nately, keeping me company. 

Thomas. And no man has pity for you. 

Chas. I need pity, father; 1 find it where you would least 
suspect it. Man has no pity, he will shun and avoid me; he is cruel. 
A stone is more accessible to pity. Here i may speak to the 
bushes, to the leaves, to the animals around me; they hear my 
tales of misery and do not turn traitors. In the night bad dreams 
haunt me, caused b\' a heavy conscience. I must forbear, I must 
not speak of myself, but of you, father. I am your only 
child, and cause you so much trouble and pain. However, 
we will waste no time in lamentations; but teU me, how 
aff"airs are at home; how mother is. I should have asked about her 
first, but 1 was so much absorbed with your own distressed condi- 
tion. 

Thomas. Like myself, she is well. What more shall I say ? 

Chas. Such messages will break the strongest heart. 

Thomas. My son, we are living in miser3\ 

Chas. Yes, father, if there is misery in this world, we are empty- 
ing the bitter contents of the cup to the very dregs; however, this 
is no time for complaining, but tell me how my beloved is 

Thomas. She is well. 

Chas. I should have listened to your heeding voice, and all this 
would not have happened. 

Thomas. I came not to accuse you. Charles. 1 am fully recon- 
ciled to her. On my way here T met her; she is true to you, and 
sends you friendly greetings. 

Chas. With all my woes I feel contented. 

Th<mias. Her father diei a short time ago. He was slain in a 
broil, which he had with one of his neighbors. 

Chas. Poor Clara; she too finds herself in a great calamity. 

Thomas. Now, my son, what do you intend doing V 



(34 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

Ghas. Ask me not, father, I am pursued day and night; every 
outlet is guarded. I will soon have consumed my last morsel, 
which, under disguise, and in the night, I was fortunate enough to 
procure from a family of emigrants traveling into the interior; and 
my destiny now is — the prison. And whither are you going, 
father ? 

Thomas. I shall go homeward. I will not live much longer. 1 
have lived long enough — I have seen you. 

Chas. I will remain here to-day. This evening or to-morrow I 
will leave my hiding place, and make the attempt to see my be- 
loved once more. 

Thomas, tor your own safety I will leave you; the day is 
advancing, and should I be spied, it would be fatal to you. Fare- 
well, my son. 

Chas. 1 will go a few steps with you before we part. 

yExeunt. 



SCENE IV. — A field on the plantation. 
Enter Inez and Tom, aftcnoards Mrs. Loudon. 

Inez. Tell me, Tom, in what way or manner was 3'our attention 
called to it. 

Tom. I was sleep, an de door o' my cabin was wide open; all at 
once I wake an' somebody was a singin'; den I look out and saw de 
shine ob de light, and oh, wat I did see ! de Lord forgives my sins; 
I sinks on de ground; dare, right dare I sees mistiss gwine to come 
up to me, wid a burnin' candle in her hand, and I felt like I wers 
dead. Den mistess went by ms and kept up a singin'; den T 
thought all de angels ob heabon had come down, just like Parson 
Smith preached about o'der Sunday from de Bible; and I am 
gwine to git up, cause I was on de ground, and come here to tell 
you mam. De Lord hab mercy! I neber seed such in my life, and 
neber wants to see it agin. 

Inez. I ought to have looked through her apartments tirst. 

Tom. I knows mam, I's a big sinner; I's done many bad things 
in my life, but don't lie; I's an honest nigger; got very little whip- 
pin' when I's had a master. I's gwine to my grave, an if I tells 
lies de debil will catch me and burn me to charcoal. 

Inez. I accuse you of no wrong, Tom; I only think you might 
have been mistaken. 

Tom. Dar, she's coming agin; she will be here in ;i min- 
ute; she's behind d-^ big oak tree; dare's de shine ob de candle; 
dare she come. 

Inez. I am trembling in every nerve. Stand aside, Tom, she 
comes this way; a slight motion from us m ly drive her away. Oh, 
mercy ! must it come to such an end ! Stcitid aside and let us keep 
silent. 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 65 

[Enter Mrs. Loudon %oUh btiming candle in hand.] 

Mrs. London, (to Inez) I saw you yesterday; I know you by 
name; you want to rob me, you horrible, you miserable bad thing ! 
I want my dress; give me green or pink; my rings, too, I want. 
(To Tom) You need not laugh; come go with me; we will go to 
the gulf and gather shells; one, two, three, a hundred, ha! ha! You 
know it is so. [Mcit. 

Inez. Such a song was not chanted to her, when, as a babe, she laid 
in her cradle. Then sweet kisses were pressed on her face and 
lips, and beaming smiles were showered on her. She was the joy 
of her parents, their jewel, their consolation, their all; and now, in 
this far off land, with no one save my own poor self. Death is no 
comparison to such a fate ! 

Tom. Dar she is agin. 

Inez. Let her again pass on. 

Enter Mrs. Loudon. 

Mrs. Loudon. I am going to a ball; I want flowers and ever- 
greens; roses become me so well. On my wedding day I looked so 
beautiful; my hair and dress were so nice. You are my mother, 
don't scold me, I will be a good child; I will go to church and 
pray. \_Exit. 

Inez. We must follow and keep watch over her. She will soon 
be exhausted and will want to go to her room and go to bed. If 
she does not seek her apartments, we will try to lead her there. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE V. —The grove near the plantation. 
Enter Clara and Charles, afterwards Thomas, Inez, Oeficers 

Negroes, Etc. 

Ghas. My father brought me the message, that you still had 
faith in me; and I have come to this ground expecting to meet you, 
to thank you, and ask your forgivness. 

Clara. You owe me no thanks, Charles; and T have nothing to 
forgive you. 

Chas. You have lost your father; it pains me to see you grief- 
stricken. 

Clara. And my mother is more than dead, she has lost her 
reason. 

Chas. Andjyou have come to mourn for me. I have robbed 
parents of their child, and brought misery on the heads of my own. 

Clara. The hand of misfortune rests heavih' upon us. 

Chas. Forbear, Clara, I fear not the prison doors, but the woe 
1 have given to others. My conscience is my greatest tormentor, 
and I find relief only in your love. 



G6 LOVE INTRIGUES. 

Clara. What is going on with you, dearest ? does grief so much 
affect you, or do you think my love for you might cease? then take 
courage, and speak to me as you did of old. 

Chas. I am becoming — fatigued. 

Clara. You are becoming pale as death; your eyes are hazy. 

Chas. I am in my last moments. 

Clara. What ! Are you taking your life, to leave me here for- 
ever ? No, my love, I w^ant to share w^ith you to the end. 

Chas. You must not; you cannot. 

Clara. In life you were so generous; and on your approaching 
death you deny me my last sacred request; can you do it? 

Chas. I am sinking fast; give me your hand. [He reaches forth 
his hand — Clara discovers a phial and takes it..) 

Clara. And is this the drug that liberates you from all earthly 
burdens'? 

Chas. Give it back to me. 

Clara. I cannot. 

Chas. A curse be on me for having procured it. 

Clara. And how came you with it ? 

Chas. On my flight from an apothecary — give it back to me ! 

Clara, [partakes of the jphial) Now we are evenly mated. 

Chas. Oh, what have I done ! 

Clara. Rest easy, my dear. 

Chas. I cannot undo what is done. My strength is giving way; 
I feel the symptoms of death — pain everywhere. My eyes are 
growing dark — a few moments more — my head — give me your 
hand--farewell — Clara — farewell. \dies. 

Clara. This is death. Now you are free from all human shackles 
and prisons. To mother earth alone belongs your sacred body, and 
vour spirit to another world. I am happy; I can close your eyes 
and imprint the last kiss of love on your brow. Farewell, Charles; 
I have been faithful to you, as you have been true to me. My 
strength is failing — the angel of death is near — I am coming — fare- 
well — farewell. \dies. 

Enter Thomas. 

Thomas. Here they are together — asleep ? No, they are dead ! 
They are dead and gone ! Death alone could give you peace. I 
bless you; you are my own, my children. Blessed was your 
coming into the world, and blessed be your going. Peace to you 
and to your ashes. [Kneels down. 

Officer iYo. 1. {^within) In this direction the fugitive must be. 

Officer No. 2. (within) He cannot escape us ^gain. 

Miter Officebs. 

Officer No. 1. What is this? asleep? Young lady and — they 
are dead ! What mystery is this ? 

Officer No. 2. Here is a phial; it is labled poison; that tells the 
tale. 



LOVE INTRIGUES. 67 

Officer No. 1. All law is at an end, when death puts its hand 
between. 

Enter Inez. 

Inez. You speak of death ? It is so. Death after death, horror 
after horror. Woe and mourning are synonimous with this com- 
munity ! 

Enter Tom amd other Negkoes. 

Tom. I know judgment day isa comin,an I'sa lostsinner. Let's 
go on our knees, boys, and let's say prayers. De Lor' bless us; 
dey are over de river; dey are cross an happy. \Negroes kneel. 

Officer No. 2. We must inform the community what dreadful 
event has again occurred. 

Officer No. \. Bad news is its own motor; but what we. must do, 
is, to remove the bodies to suitable quarters. 

Inez. This is the saddest event of all. They were the best and 
purest 6f those who have gone before. Dearly have they paid,^the 
penalty of their pure love, and thus their fondest hopes and sweet- 
est dreams have come to naught. Oh, if tears were the emblems of 
mourning, I could shed them all the days of my life. Now, friends, 
-we must bury this couple in the manner their pure hearts deserved. 
We will inter them side by side; so they wanted to live, and 
so have they departed from this world. And let a mouuraejit 
be erected that will mark the place where their earthly remains 
are laid to rest. But the best monument, more lasting than 
marble or granite, will remain in the memory and in the 
hearts of the people among whom they lived. As for myself, I 
will depart for my native home in the far off' land of the- south, and 
will take with me all sorrowful recollections from this country, 
and reflect thereon, during solitary hours, to the end of my life. 

THE END. 



ERRATA. 



By Omission: Act I, Scene II, Page 13; the first persons in the 

scene. 
Enter Gent and Lady. 

Gent. I often wonder why our friends are alwaj's late. 
Lady. It is not inditference, because all are overjoyed with our 
entertainments. 

Ge7U. Is it on account of new styles being out? 

Lady. It need not necessarily be so, because coming late seems 
to be style in itself. 

Gent. Then style and pleasure are almost synonimous. 

Lady. I believe it is, the world over. 

Ge7it. Suppose, in this age of progress, our ladies would make 
coming early fashionable? 

Lady. Suppose our gentlemen would bring up the proposition 
formally ? 

Gent. I believe it would be a fruitless task, as the gods them- 
selves could not effect the innovation. 



By Correction : Act iii. Scene iv. Page 46; monologue of Mrs. 
Loudon. " What step is he now going to take;" the whole is void, 
the correction is: 

Mrs. Loudoyi. Was ever such infamy resorted to! To me they 
come for advice in intrigues, in persuasion ! "Resort to everything 
that is expedient; " said he : And I to be the vile instrument to 
carry out their purposes ! I to be so devoid of feeling and sensi- 
tiveness to effect on another what I consider to be a heinous act 
done to me ! Was human nature ever so abused and trodden 
under ? and am I to be silent, or to help, to invent, to suggest, to 
persuade ? Never ! For that, I had rather see them hurled into 
the deepest alsyss, and buried under the heaps of their own acts of 
infamy; here he comes. 



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